


Never Know If You Don't Go

by valahallalmalla



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Attempt at Humor, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Shrek AU, well mostly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-01-01 02:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 70,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18327179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valahallalmalla/pseuds/valahallalmalla
Summary: Weiss Schnee, Crown Princess of the Kingdom of Atlas, can'tbelievethat Whitley would do something like this.Wait, that’s not quite right.Weiss can'tbelievethat it took Whitley so long to do something like this. Her brother has been eyeing her spot by Father’s throne ever since he could spell ‘coup d’état’.Which, in hindsight, is not a phrase favored by a well-adjusted five-year-old boy.…In which a princess-in-exile crashes into a sulky shapeshifter, is sucked into a whirlwind adventure, and encounters irritating allies, mustache-twirling enemies, and more cameos than you can shake a dragon at.





	1. The First Step

**Author's Note:**

> No offense is meant to the creators of RWBY and/or Shrek. References and paraphrased dialog belong to their respective originators.
> 
> Updates Tuesday & Friday!

**FAIRYTALE DEATHCAMP (Weiss)**

Weiss Schnee, Crown Princess of the Kingdom of Atlas, can't _believe_ that Whitley would do something like this.

Wait, that’s not quite right.

Weiss can't _believe_ that it took Whitley so long to do something like this. Her brother has been eyeing her spot by Father’s throne ever since he could spell ‘coup d’état’.

Which, in hindsight, is not a phrase favored by a well-adjusted five-year-old boy.

“I really am _terribly_ sorry, Your Highn—er, Miss Schnee.” Klein, the family steward, wrings his hands as the line moves forward. It’s a diverse collection of creatures; some fairies in birdcages, a minotaur or two, and every flavor of cursed wildlife. “I am sure the resettlement facility will adequately meet all your needs,” he finishes lamely.

She tries to glare at the man, but it’s impossible to be angry with Klein, even when he’s delivering you to some sort of fairytale deathcamp. “Can you at least loosen these cuffs?” Weiss wheedles, pulling on a pout for good measure. “My wrists are chafing.”

 _Just one glyph_ , she says to herself. _That’s all I need._ The problem is, to conjure said symbols of whyte wytchcraft, she needs to lose these shackles.

But the portly butler shakes his head, glancing toward the mechanical Knights standing not five paces away. One jerkily pivots to face them, blue light leaking from the compact dust furnace in its chest. “Y-your brother,” stammers Klein, “gave strict instructions, Miss Schnee. He is the heir now, after all…”

“Because he _stabbed me in the back_!” She doesn’t physically stamp her foot, but it’s a close thing. “And I’m sure if he wasn’t such a coward, that wouldn’t be a figure of speech!”

Bizarrely, the next thought to come to mind is that Weiss doesn’t have _time_ to be imprisoned. She is expected to attend an art exhibition next week, her fencing lesson is on the morrow, and the princess has been looking forward to her upcoming birthday ball for _months_. Her schedule is simply too full for a spontaneous incarceration, thank you very much.

“You know Lord Jacques’s policy on your… sibling rivalry,” Klein defends weakly, taking another step forward. “He expects you to sort out such conflicts among yourselves.”

The man seems distracted, his watery brown eyes flickering to the front of the queue. Weiss follows the look to where a mustachioed soldier is processing several dwarfs with bored efficiency. The magical beings are to be registered, then placed in an internment center until the king decides what to do with them—knowing her father, they’ll likely be put to work in the mines. He’s bigoted, but not stupid enough to discount a potential labor force.

Such is her own fate, if she can't come up with a plan within the next ten minutes.

 _All to fuel Father’s pursuit of a ‘perfect kingdom’_ , Weiss muses bitterly. It had started with his decree that creatures of Grimm be hunted and killed on sight—which had been met with no objections—but rapidly snowballed to include less-than-favorable treatment of most non-humans in the kingdom of Atlas.

Though she had never gone so far as to voice her objections, Weiss can't see the sense in that. Magical beings vastly outnumber humans—who themselves are no strangers to the mystical, as she herself proves. Between the faunus, the nature spirits, the talking animals, and the wide assortment of cursed, enchanted, or otherwise extraordinary beings; her father’s increasingly oppressive policies are more likely to result in a deserted kingdom than a prosperous one.

 _This is ridiculous!_ In the present, Weiss fumes, squinting at the diminutive prisoners that head up the line. _Some of those dwarfs are almost Klein’s height._ Her gaze swings back to her steward. _Which really says more about him…_

Wispy white bangs flutter before her eyes as she shakes her head. They're only three places back now. She needs to strategize, not waste time considering Klein’s family history. How is she supposed to get out of this mess?

The dwarfs are bundled away into a prison cart, followed by an animated mannequin in a beret and some kind of walking jade statue. Then a chocolate-brown rabbit that spits insults at the man in a lilting accent, and finally it is Weiss’s turn.

“All right, what have you got?” drawls the man, looking up. He’s a sergeant, judging by his insignias. Whatever glamour Whitley had placed upon her must be enough to fool him, because his next words aren’t, _“Why do you have the crown princess in manacles?”_

“A—a witch,” squeaks Klein, standing on tiptoe. “Captured skulking around the Capital itself!”

The officer hums. “Yes, she certainly looks the part.”

Weiss chokes on her tongue. How _dare_ —She pauses, remembering the glamour. Even so, she draws herself up for the principle of the thing, chin rising defiantly.

“Well,” he continues. “That’s worth a hundred _lien_. If you can prove it.”

Klein shuffles his feet. “And, ah, how would I do that?” He moves before Weiss, bending over her cuffs. “Should I have her cast a spell?”

“No, you idiot!” Papers fly off the table as the sergeant scrambles upright. “If she really _is_ a—”

But his caution comes too late. As Klein throws up his hands with a terrified screech, Weiss could swear that she sees one crimson eye flutter in a wink. “AaAAGH!” screams the butler, clutching his chest. “By the Brothers Grimm, she’s loose!”

As she stands, frozen, loosened manacles slipping off her wrists, he throws himself to the side, just so happening to crash into a pair of onrushing Knights.

“She _must_ be a sorceress!” bellows the officer. “She’s trying to escape!”

 _Right_ , thinks Weiss. _Good idea._ The approaching guards shy away from the glowing blue glyph that launches her into the air, her hair streaming in the breeze before she lands on the relative safety of another rune.

“After her!” the sergeant shouts… at the same time the oversized fox that is next in line yells, “RIOT!” and the clearing erupts into a melee.

Weiss leaves it all behind as she makes for the deepest part of the Royal Wood, hopping from glyph to glyph in midair. While her father has laid claim to the entirety of this sprawling forest, she knows that there are places where even his soldiers fear to tread. Of course, now she runs the risk of encountering the source of that fear, but she’ll deal with that when—if—she has to.

Before long, sweat beads on her brow. She’s never used her magic so much before, or so fast, but the clatter of Atlesian automatons drives her onward until—

A foot comes down wrong, the sigil beneath flickering as pain shoots up her ankle. With a shrill cry, Weiss tumbles out of the sky, barely managing a gravity glyph to cushion her fall. She rolls across the forest floor, white dress rapidly dirtying to gray… then comes to a sudden stop, a squeak escaping from clenched teeth as she slams into a pair of sturdy legs.

“Help,” she wheezes.

When she looks up, however, Weiss almost wishes she’d remained with Father’s thugs. Something hideous looms above her, a shapeless form cloaked in the shadow of the undergrowth. Gleaming fangs and fiery eyes are all she can make of its face, a snarl leaking from within shaggy jaws.

“Ho there!” The sergeant and his mechanical warriors arrive in a storm of clanks and clashes, crossbows at the ready. “Greetings…” He stops short as he sees the creature, heels digging into the soft earth. “Ah… beast.”

“Yes?” it growls, voice surprisingly soft. “Can I help you?”

He points past its hairy legs, where Weiss has found shelter. “You are harboring a fugitive from Atlas Law. By the order of Lord Jacques, I am authorized to place you both under—”

A blink, and the beast is nowhere to be seen.

“—arrest…” the officer finishes, head swinging frantically from side to side. Taking advantage of his shock, Weiss scrambles behind the nearest tree, almost as unnerved as the soldier.

“C-come quietly!” he manages, knees starting to tremble.

Behind him, a swift, dark shape slashes the legs off one of his Knights before leaping back into the shadows.

“And you will n-not be harmed!”

Another mechanical soldier drops, headless. With surprising bravery—or stupidity, in Weiss’s opinion—the man stands his ground. “We will p-p-provide for all your n-needs,” he goes on, spinning in place as the shadow tears through his remaining Knights one by one. “And transport you to a designated… resettlement… facility.”

His words slow as the monster steps into the light. Now in the form of a pitch-black panther, it stalks forward without a hint of fear, stray shafts of sunlight giving its fur a purple sheen.

“You and what army,” it purrs, and darts forward to pluck a pawful of gears from his last remaining automaton. It falls like a marionette with its strings cut, and the captain finally seems to realize how outmatched he’s been all along.

As he turns tail and streaks back toward the processing station, Weiss gets to her feet, brushing leaves from her stockings. “Thank you,” she tells her rescuer. _Unless…_ “You’re not going to eat me, are you?”

“Witches give me indigestion,” it deadpans, then turns and lopes into the murk.

“Wait!” Her glyphs are still shaky, but they let her keep pace with the beast—barely. “I know what you are. You're a _nagual_ , a werecat. A skin-changer.”

“Congratulations.” But despite the flatness of its tone, the beast rolls one golden eye to look Weiss up and down.

“And might I just say, you dealt with that man incredibly.” A little flattery can't _hurt_ , surely. “He should be ashamed of himself. Were it up to me—”

Her lips snap shut before she can give herself away, but the werecat shows no sign of having heard her speak at all.

After another series of magic-assisted leaps, Weiss can feel her legs starting to tremble. With no other choice, she steels herself and plays the ace up her sleeve. “And I know _who_ you are, too. Everyone has heard of the shadow that haunts the Royal Wood. You’re that—”

The world spins. When her vision steadies, Weiss finds herself being treated to a firsthand lesson on why her father’s men fear the forest. The great cat’s teeth stand a finger’s breadth from her nose, one heavy paw pinning her to the ground. She doesn’t dare to breathe, much less speak.

After an endless moment, it sits back on its haunches with a grudging huff. “And I,” it retorts, “know who _you_ are. Princess.” The shapeshifter starts to pad around her, slipping between patches of shadow as it circles. “Your glamour is wearing thin.”

“Good,” breathes Weiss. If she concentrates, she can feel the shreds of the magical disguise slide over her skin like oil. “Now, if you know who I am—”

“You said these were your father’s woods?” The voice is low, silky… and to the princess’s palace-trained ear, trying a little too hard. “My family held court here for centuries before the first human set foot among these trees.”

“Well, when I called it the _Royal_ Wood, I didn’t quite mean…”

A claw snags the hem of her skirt. “Your kind never do. That’s why I, as my father before me, have sworn to bring nature’s justice to our domain. To protect and serve the people of the wilds.”

“That’s nice.” Weiss manages, trying to catch her breath. “Now—Wait!”

The nagual is moving again, though at a slightly slower pace. Weiss follows on foot, stumbling over stones and getting smacked by leaves, until the foliage thins out, revealing…

“Hmph.” She can't hold back a sniff as she looks over the secluded glen. Little effort has been made to tame the overgrown vegetation, a sprawling wood-and-stone structure the only sign of civilization. A stream runs the length of the valley, nestling the solitary dwelling in its curve.

“How quaint. Which poor forest creature has the misfortune to live here?”

Her companion spares her a slow blink. “Welcome to my childhood home,” purrs the shapeshifter.

“O-oh.” Weiss recovers as smoothly as she can, which is not very. “And what a lovely home it is. Wonderful… plants! And that architecture is _inspired_. Is that a green building?” As she pauses for breath, the princess doesn’t miss the roll of her companion’s eyes. “Not to mention the—”

“Blake?” A deep bass rumble descends from above. “Who are you talking to?”

The panther seems to shrink before Weiss’s gaze, fur bristling as amber eyes bulge in its head. “Dad!” it yowls. “Nothing—I mean, no one! Don’t come down!”

A broad shadow winds lazily down the nearest trunk, ignoring the plea. Another nagual, almost twice Blake’s size, drops the last few feet in a graceful bound, shaking out its onyx mane. “A human?” he thunders. “Blake, have you made a friend?”

Before Weiss can do anything more than open her mouth, another voice joins the discourse, echoing from the valley below. “Ghira,” it calls, “what has our daughter found this time?”

“Mom,” mutters Blake, placing a paw over her eyes. As her father bellows a response, one golden eye peeks out at Weiss. “You wouldn’t be willing to make a run for it, would you?” She cocks her head. “I’ll give you a head start.”

“Not a chance.”

 

**DELIVERY GIRL (Blake)**

Blake Belladonna has never felt more betrayed.

“And that’s where our daughter changed skins for the first time.” Head buried in a novel, the shapeshifter does her best to ignore her mother’s coos and the razor-edged glee lurking in their guest’s eyes. “Oh, she was an adorable little kitten, even if she did disembowel the wardrobe.”

The Schnee girl hides her sneer behind a hand. “You have a lovely home, Lady…”

Blake’s mother laughs aloud. “Belladonna, dear. But call me Kali.”

“And I’m Ghira,” booms her father. “It’s our pleasure to host our neighbors. We haven't had a visit from the Schnee family since… oh, was it your grandfather’s time?”

Like Kali and Blake, he is in human shape—or close to it, at least. As guardians of the wild, she and her parents can never fully hide their true natures, so they usually end up looking more like mankind’s cousins the faunus. As usual, Blake and her mother sport feline ears among their hair, while Ghira has maintained his luxurious mane.

It seems like too much effort, in Blake’s opinion, especially for a _Schnee_ , but they’re making the attempt. “For the comfort of our guest,” her mother had insisted.

Still, the princess can't bring herself to meet Ghira’s eye. “It must have been.”

He coughs into one hairy hand. “Ahem. Er, I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories. It’s truly saddening, what you’ve told us about your father and his policies. He hardly seems like the just ruler that Nicholas was.”

Which is exactly what Blake has been telling them ever since she came back home, but do they ever listen to _her_? She feels her lips peel back from lengthening teeth, and brings herself back under control. “Right,” she says aloud. “And it’s only getting worse. Tell them what you were running from when I found you.”

The princess does.

“They’re imprisoning the magical creatures?” Blake’s father shakes his head, aghast.

“Most of them,” confirms Weiss. “Father has never liked magic”—none of them miss how her eyes drop to her own hands—“but I never thought he’d go this far.”

Kali moves to stand behind her husband, one hand moving to scratch the back of his neck. “All the non-humans? What of the faunus?” she inquires.

“No. Not the faunus,” the princess says. “In Atlas, they…” She shakes her head. “Father… finds them useful.”

Both of Blake’s parents growl, the low tone reverberating up the walls of their den. “We put an end to that _slavery_ business back before Blake was born,” relates Ghira. “Jacques knows better than to try _that_ again.”

The princess doesn’t quite recoil, but shock flashes across her porcelain features. “That was _you_?” she gasps. “Father never told me much about the uprising, and the castle library is… sparse in certain areas.”

“It wasn’t an _uprising_ ,” Blake hears herself snap. “No matter what you humans tell yourselves.”

Her mother hisses over one shoulder. “Blake!” she chides. “Manners.”

“I’m not an idiot!” retorts Weiss. “I know things aren’t that simple. I just… don’t often leave the Capital.”

“Well, we are happy to educate you,” soothes Kali. “All those years ago, our incursion into Atlas was largely a show of force. We keepers of the wilds don’t come together often, but—I hope you don’t mind me saying—the King needed to learn where the line was.”

“I do understand.” Their guest worries at her lower lip. “But Father excels at skirting such boundaries without quite crossing them. Even before his latest decree, I have believed that I can do better for our kingdom. No, I’m _sure_ ,” she claims, arrogance reentering her tone. “Once I reclaim my place, of course.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” Blake snipes, eyes narrowed over the edge of her book. “You were being chased by your own guards an hour ago.”

The Schnee returns a cool stare. “I am _well_ aware. But they didn’t know who I was, thanks to my snake of a brother. Whitley’s latest scheme may have progressed farther than usual, but I’ve dealt with him before.” Her thin hands ball into fists. “I’ll do it again, and Father will accept the outcome. He doesn’t take sides, never puts too much support behind either of us.” A muscle jumps in her jaw. “It keeps us from getting complacent.”

Blake sees the unease in her parents’ eyes. _And Lord Schnee calls_ us _the animals._

“Mm,” her father grunts. “And then? After what you’ve seen with your own eyes, what do you plan to do about these new laws of your father’s?”

The Schnee’s throat bobs. “I—I wouldn't be able to make changes right away. Until I or one of my siblings turn twenty-one, Father has control.”

 _She’s hedging_. Blake knows how this will go. Once the princess is back in the Capital, back in her castle, there’s little chance of any promises coming to fruition. They need a binding agreement before she leaves. _Maybe we can get her to swear in blood_. The werecat savors the thought.

“Of course, of course.” Ghira slaps his thigh. “Well, enough of such serious matters!”

Blake feels her jaw drop behind her book. _He’s letting her get away with it!_

“You must be guided home,” agrees Kali, ignoring the incredulous look from her daughter. “And safely. We will do everything in our power to return you to your rightful place.”

“Thank… you,” manages Weiss, wariness all over her face.

“Nonsense!” booms Blake’s father. “It is our duty as lords of the Wood, and our pleasure as well.” The older nagual winks. “Besides, it’s always good to have your neighbor owe you a favor.”

This, oddly, seems to make the princess relax. “Wise words,” she laughs politely. “Now, if you could direct me to a guide…”

“Oh, Blake will take you.”

“ _What_?”

Weiss blinks. “Yes, what?”

Ghira gives an exaggerated wince as he arches his back. “I’m not the ranger I once was.” His spine cracks audibly. “Oof, there it is.”

“Dad!” pleads Blake.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic, dear,” coos Kali. “It’s not like we’ll be idle. The neighboring forest spirits have been getting restless, and now that we know why, we can start to… address the issue.” Her smile turns misty. “I know we’ve been taking it easy since you returned home, but we mustn’t neglect our duties.”

“Mom!” Is her mother… tearing up?

“Even if we’ll miss you so much!”

“Now look who’s being dramatic!” Ghira chortles. “It’ll only be a day or two, sweetheart. Our daughter will be fine. And,” he says, turning to a bemused Weiss, “we wouldn’t dream of sending you with anyone but our best.”

Kali bobs her head, earrings flashing merrily. “Yes, and as the futures of your respective kingdoms, you two should establish a healthy working relationship.”

“An excellent point, dear.”

“Thank you, my love.”

There’s no escape. Blake can see this now. Only her parents’ encouraging smiles stop her from shredding the furniture.

She’s really starting to wish she’d left the Schnee to be taken.

 

**WELCOME TO ATLAS (Weiss)**

“So much for ‘Father doesn’t take sides’.”

Weiss grits her teeth, fingers twisting to summon a glyph. Crossbow bolts shatter against the magic circle, and she uses the brief respite to scowl at Blake. “You’re _not_ helping.”

The nagual merely presses herself further into the shadow between two houses, which Weiss finds patently unfair. Shrunken to the size of a housecat, it’s not like the shapeshifter is that big of a target anyway.

“I did my job,” Blake purrs. “This is the nearest village, isn't it? Be grateful I didn’t leave you at one of the mining camps.” Weiss catches a dangerous flash in her amber eyes. “You would _not_ like it there. No, I delivered you to your people in one piece—which, believe me, wasn’t easy. Lots of things in our woods would love to take a bite out of a Schnee.”

The princess darts an irritated glance at her companion. “I’m aware,” she huffs. “Several of them tried.”

“Ungrateful aristocrat,” grumbles Blake.

“Mangy menace,” Weiss retorts.

Blake’s answering hiss is interrupted by another volley of arrows, forcing the white-haired girl to produce another glyph. “I delivered you here, didn’t I? Safe and sound.” The werecat snaps.

“Yes,” concedes Weiss. “And now my own Knights are _shooting at me_.” She ducks into Blake’s alley as her shield sputters out. “I am no longer safe nor sound.”

Her slothful companion rolls over, kicking her paws in the air. “Not my problem.”

“You're a magical creature! They’ll attack you, too!”

“Meow,” says Blake, looking as innocent as possible for a cat black as the midnight sky. “Purr.”

Weiss drags a palm down her face. “Clearly,” she hisses, more to herself than her unhelpful ally, “Father had more of a hand in my exile than I had believed.” Had _wanted_ to believe, she admits to herself, though on further consideration, she really isn't surprised. “He and Whitley have always been envious of my magic. And ever since he sent Winter away…” She trails off, inspiration seizing the reins of her mind.

“Who’s Winter?”

Oh, so Blake _had_ been listening after all. “My sister,” murmurs Weiss, peeking around the corner. A trio of Atlesian Knights are marching toward their position as quickly as their geared joints allow. “And I think I know our next move.”

“ _Our_? I don’t think so. Count me out.” The cat’s face sets in a haughty frown, but Weiss has had _enough_.

“Do you _like_ how things have been going in Atlas?” Blake snarls in response, amber eyes narrowing above her tiny fangs. “Because I assure you, my father and Whitley are cut from the same slippery cloth. _I_ am the best hope for keeping your forest free.”

“Unless we do away with the Schnees altogether,” mutters the skin-changer, voice dark. “I hear democracy’s catching on in Vale. Not like it would be _hard_ to build an army against your family after what your father’s done. From what I hear, I’ll have my pick of resistance groups.” Her tail whips from side to side, her shoulders seeming to broaden before Weiss’s eyes. “But—”

Claws send sparks off the cobbles as Blake leaps. The shielding glyph that Weiss summons only serves as a foothold, the panther pulling herself around the sigil with powerful legs. With a desperate shriek, she throws herself to the ground, at the mercy of the shapeshifter… who launches herself at the Knights as they round the corner, reducing them to scrap in a blur of fangs and fur.

“That would bring us down to your level,” she finishes, batting a cogwheel into the air. Blake sits back, amused, as Weiss climbs to her feet, trying to hide her trembles. “You’re welcome. Again.”

A frustrated squeak slips from her lips as she flicks a hand, and the panther suddenly finds herself upside-down between a pair of humming sigils. “You… you _boob_!” Weiss shrieks. “You knew what you were doing!”

With a full-body shrug, Blake slips into faunus form, the better to return Weiss’s glare. “Just proving a point, Ice Queen.”

“Being?” the shorter girl demands.

Even in this shape, Blake’s smile is catlike. “I may need you, but you wouldn’t last five seconds without _me_.”

Unfortunately, she has a point.

When Weiss reluctantly releases her magic, Blake drops into a perfect three-point landing, then straightens, adjusting her vest. “So,” she says. “Tell me more about this plan of yours”

 

**ON THE ROAD AGAIN (Blake)**

“We should cut through the southern jungle.” Blake thinks aloud as she walks, paws sinking into springy grass that mats the forest floor. “The King’s troops don’t do well in that climate, and the local spirits run a tight ship.”

Somewhere behind her, the princess is struggling through the undergrowth. She’s produced a slim, silvery sword from Brothers-know-where, and is using it to clear her path, swatting aside low-hanging branches with the flat of the blade.

“And this will bring us closer to Winter?” the Schnee pants.

The panther turns back just in time to see a leafy bough smack the girl across the face. “Yes,” she purrs. “If you can make it that far.”

As Weiss storms forward, her face is pink—except for a leaf-shaped red patch on her cheek. “Is that a threat?” she demands.

“An observation.”

The trees soon thin out, the woods opening up around a large lagoon. Her Highness keeps her sword out, swishing it idly through the air as they walk. Every swipe sends out a low _shwing_ , grating on the very edge of Blake’s catlike hearing. Like the young woman herself, the sound is _incredibly_ irritating.

“Would you put that away?” the nagual snarls after a minute of aural torture. “Where did you get it, anyhow?”

She looks over a dark-furred shoulder to see Weiss inflate with pride. “Myrtenaster has been in my family for generations,” she boasts. “I received it from my mother, who received it from her father, who was gifted it by a dwarfen smith.”

Blake pauses at the news. “A dwarf?”

The Schnee sags. “Grandfather was a friend of all beings. And while my father may be prejudiced, he loves a good bargain. Myrtenaster was simply too valuable to destroy, even after Grandfather passed.”

A bland hum leaves the werecat’s muzzle.

“And _I’m_ no bigot!” Weiss snaps. “Some of my best friends are dwarfs. There’s no need to look like that!” she adds, catching Blake’s expression. “I’m telling the truth.”

“No, it’s just… You have _friends_?”

The princess scowls. “One friend,” she grits out, then glances away. “Well, our butler.”

“Your butler,” echoes Blake, starting to walk. “Fine, fine. But what I meant was, where were you _keeping_ Myrtenaster? You definitely didn’t have it when we met.”

At this, the Schnee preens. “Glyphs,” she says. “They are quite versatile. Why, my sister—”

She breaks off with a soft gasp, shortly preceded by a damp _plunk_.

“Blake,” calls the princess. “How deep does this pond look to you?”

She’s dropped her fancy sword. _Fantastic_. They stare into the muddy water, Weiss nearly falling in before Blake snags the Schnee’s dress between her teeth.

“Just wait,” she says when the princess leans forward once more. “Pools like these…”

The water starts to bubble.

“… tend to have tenants,” finishes Blake, watching the soggy form rise from the pond. Green-skinned and draped with water plants, the masculine figure emerges up to his waist and glides forward, scowling at his guests.

“Hello,” calls Weiss. “I seem to have misplaced my rapier. It would be ever so appreciated if you could retrieve it, Sir…” A hand rises to shield her mouth. “What _is_ he?” she whispers.

The nagual cocks her head. “Some kind of water spirit, obviously. A nixie, perhaps?"

“Hah!” booms the lagoon dweller. “Wrong! I am Tsar Lagune, general of the _vodyanoy_.” He snorts wetly. “Though I would expect no better from a flea-bitten cur such as yourself.”

Blake growls, teeth flashing.

“See?” hisses her companion. “ _That’s_ a bigot.” She pauses, head tilting. “Although… you’re both nature spirits, aren’t you? Hostility hardly seems logical.”

“Yes,” the werecat snarls back. “Because your father’s brand of intolerance makes _so_ much sense.”

Stiffening, Weiss turns back to the vodyanoy. “Will you lend your aid?” she asks again, voice cool. “I could always fetch my sword myself.” A glyph hums to life above her hand, spinning like a buzzsaw.

Lagune shakes his head, splattering his guests with pond scum. “No need for that,” he gulps, then dives.

The water sprite returns within minutes, presenting a silver weapon to the princess. “Is this it?” he asks, a shrewd light in his beady eyes.

She just scoffs. “That’s _silver_. Who would be moronic enough to use a sword made of silver?”

Muttering darkly, Lagune dives again. This time, he surfaces bearing a blade of solid gold.

“Is this—”

“That doesn’t even _look_ the same!”

As the vodyanoy dips below the surface a third time, Blake shifts closer to the Schnee. “I know you don’t need to worry about money, but we could use some,” the nagual mutters. “How valuable is this heirloom of yours? More than gold?”

“Mithril.”

“ _Mithril_?” No wonder the Schnees had held on to the thing.

Lagune returns with a splash, a churlish pout on his lips. “Fine!” he cries. “You win! Take the lot!” They step back as all three swords are tossed onto the bank, gold and silver appearing dull beside the Schnee’s mithril blade. “Damned picky humans,” he mutters, swimming away with ill grace. “Filthy animal lovers the whole lot of—”

The silver sword sails past his ear, and the vodyanoy squeals. Blake snatches up the gold before her companion can throw that too, shaking her head as he sinks into the pond and Weiss throttles the air. The princess fixes her with a look of disbelief, but the nagual just rolls her eyes.

“What?” she says, spitting out the rapier. “Not like I’ve never met his type before. And we need to eat, don’t we?”

 

**INTERLUDE- THE PERFECT KING (Jacques)**

At the moment, Lord Jacques Schnee, first of his name, is _not_ a happy king. And, as he throws open the doors to his balcony, the man notes with some satisfaction that the weather seems to agree.

Thunder rolls across the sky as he glares down at passing airships, moustache bristling furiously. Like his neat head of hair, it’s white as paper, as is the silk suit that covers his tall, narrow frame.

“She escaped.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Twice.”

Whitley sidles backward, obsequious smile frozen on his face. “I’m afraid so, Father.”

“And she has… allies.”

“At least one, Father.” His son swallows audibly, and Jacques Schnee doesn’t bother to hide his sneer. “The Beast that’s been troubling our tax collectors in the Royal Wood.”

For a moment, Jacques inclines his head in thought. “Naturally,” he says at last. “Magic has made your sister weak, and she knows it. She will seek out more aid, for she is sure to fail on her own.”

“Like Winter?” Whitley ventures, already quailing.

Lord Jacques feels his face darken, his chest swell. The king turns from his balcony, but before he gets farther than opening his mouth, the door flies open, slamming back against the stone wall.

“My lord! We’ve found it!”

General Ironwood stands aside as his men follow him inside, carrying an oblong object draped with cloth. As Jacques rubs his hands together, son forgotten, the soldiers hang it on the wall and sweep away the covering.

Green smoke swirls within the ornate mirror, light flashing across its pearly frame. The guards back away while their king steps closer, flanked by his general and son. Before their eyes, a head appears in the glass, shaded in white and gray against its black backdrop. Shaggy silver hair crowns the spectral noggin, and a pair of round-framed spectacles balances precariously on the tip of its nose. The apparition is also turned to one side, apparently speaking with someone just out of view.

“Black, please. And two shots of—” The man in the mirror breaks off, swiveling to face them. He blinks. “Ah, where am I?”

Jacques gapes at the head, briefly taken aback. “Castle Schneeballschlacht, of course!” he scoffs. “Home of the Schnee family for untold generations, famed in song and story!”

A blank look emanates from the glass.

“Located conveniently in the mighty capital of Atlas,” supplies Whitley, poking his head before the glass. “An excellent travel destination for the whole family.”

The head bobs, satisfied. “And how may I be of service? Oh, thank you.” This last is again aimed somewhere out of frame, and shortly followed by a cup and saucer appearing below his chin. The stem of a spoon circles as it stirs the beverage, which soon rises for the wizard to take a sip.

“I’m sorry,” snaps Lord Schnee. “Are we _interrupting_?”

“How are you _doing_ that?” exclaims Whitley, dangerously close to cutting off his father. “You don’t have any—”

“Silence!” Jacques pins the looking glass with a warning glare. “I asked it a question.”

After a pause just short enough to avoid being disrespectful, the head lowers its cup. “Well, you see, traditionally I only accept queries couched in rhyme.”

Lord Schnee feels his eyes narrow. “James,” he says, not looking away from the impertinent object.

With a barely audible sigh, General Ironwood picks up a nearby hand mirror, makes a fist of his tin hand, and shatters it with a blow.

The wizard’s face twists into a cringe. “Exceptions can be made, of course.”

Ah, so it _can_ be reasonable. “Excellent.” Jacques rubs his moustache between two fingers. “Now, show me my eldest daughter…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: More fun and ~~exposition~~ worldbuilding as Weiss and Blake continue to road-trip across fantasy-Remnant


	2. Black and White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blake meets an old friend, Weiss makes a new enemy, Cinder is cinister, and Qrow is drunk.

**YOU THOUGHT WRONG (Blake)**

“I’ve never been this far south.”

“Mm.”

“The wildlife is so _vibrant_ here!”

“Great.”

“It _could_ be a little less… sticky, though.”

Does the Schnee girl _ever_ stop talking? Blake’s ears fold forward to block her out, all four sets of claws gouging into the earth with every step. The princess may be entranced by the jungle’s beauty, but she knows better. The Amitola river basin is treacherous, humid, and even the bugs here want to eat you. The pretty colors are _warnings_ , not decoration. You’d think the Schnee had grown up in an iron box.

 _Or the Atlesian Capital_ , she supposes. _Which can't be much different._

“So,” Blake forces out a moment later. “Your sister.”

Weiss jumps, almost tripping over a creeper. “Oh,” she snips. “A whole four syllables. To what do I owe this honor?”

The panther waits.

“Winter,” sighs the princess, “was sent away on my tenth birthday. Father didn’t want me to know where he hid her, but I found out eventually. Locked in a tower, of _course_. All the way in Vale.”

Blake doesn’t even try to keep the skepticism from her tone. “And she’ll solve all our problems.”

“She’ll help,” snaps Weiss. “Besides, if I’m defying Father, I might as well go all the way.” The girl’s sigh drifts through the muggy air. “I always imagined marching to her rescue.” Blake watches her glance at herself. “I never imagined it would be like _this_.”

“How touching,” drawls a half-familiar voice.

While her companion’s gaze rises with agonizing slowness, Blake leaps for the nearest tree. By the time Weiss lays eyes on their ambusher, the werecat is ten feet off the ground, padding onto a branch.

The woman who’d spoken squats on the sturdy limb like a frog; back hunched, hands planted between her feet. A curling tail of copper hair brushes the curve of her spine as she turns, cloud-gray eyes widening with recognition as she looks the skin-changer up and down.

 _Ilia?_ The werecat recalls childhood trips to the jungle, gamboling through the trees under the Amitolas’ watchful eyes. Their daughter had been Blake’s age, and they’d been fast friends for years. Of course, Blake hasn’t been back this way for close to a decade, not since she left home for the first time. _Has something happened?_ she wonders. Where are the rainforest’s senior guardians?

Then every visible inch of Ilia’s skin strobes yellow, her chin jabbing toward a point between them.

Blake freezes mid-step, paw inches from the branch. Below it sits a frog, slick skin the color of unripe fruit. She growls, and it hops away with a _ribbit_ , joining the crowd of its brethren that suddenly surrounds the jungle spirit. Every shape and color imaginable, the creatures focus on her with bulbous eyes—and they're not the only ones.

Every limb, every leaf, every vine in sight hosts at least one tiny amphibian or reptile. Lizards, frogs, snakes, salamanders. She’s not sure if they had been hiding, or if their size and previous lack of motion had let them slip beneath her notice; but either way, Blake curses inwardly. This isn't her territory, the sights and smells of the rainforest deafening to her finely-tuned senses.

The one-woman herpetological society looks back towards Weiss and smiles, slow and sharp. “You’re a long way from your ivory tower, Schnee.”

Blake watches her companion frown, still oblivious to their miniature audience. “Yes, and?”

“I wonder,” says the jungle spirit, not answering the question, “if your father cares about you at all.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“If he cares about his family,” the young woman clarifies, tone still conversational. “He certainly doesn’t have concern to spare for anyone else’s.”

A sharp intake of breath drifts to Blake’s ears. They flatten in anticipation of the infuriated retort, but it never comes. “The mines,” Weiss mutters instead.

 _Mines?_ Blake flicks her eyes towards her childhood friend, whose coloring has shifted to a triumphant violet.

The werecat had… experienced Atlas-run mines back while running with Adam and his sect of the White Fang, and her encounters had not been pleasant ones. The group had razed dozens of facilities across the northern edge of the kingdom while Blake had been a member, but the Atlesian war machine is truly titanic, and it’s no surprise that the response had apparently been to build more mines in the south instead.

The kingdom’s seemingly endless industrial power had been the thing—one of the things—to drive Adam over the line. Fighting for change from the bottom up was never going to affect Lord Schnee in the slightest, and realizing that fact had turned her old friend into as much of a monster as the king.

“Yes, _your_ mines,” Ilia hisses in the present. “You sent your machines and your fire and your _lumberjacks_.” Blake is sure she’s never heard that word pronounced with such venom. “We—” She sees the young woman grimace. “ _I_ drove you out then, and I’ll do it again.”

Blake feels her ears flatten. The absence of Ilia’s parents speaks louder than her words ever could, no matter how vehement.

“You Schnees should have learned your lesson.” A hand blurs toward Ilia’s belt, turning bloodred an instant before the rest of her. “You _are not welcome_ in my jungle.” She unhooks something from her side, a coil of metal that sparks as it unfurls.

Weiss’s eyes widen as the white-haired girl recognizes the weapon. “That’s an overseer’s shock lash! How did you get your hands on tha-ag-ag-ag-ag-ag.” Her limbs dance as electricity courses through them, princess and nature spirit connected by a tongue of lightning.

A satisfied smirk forms on their assailant’s lips as she yanks her whip free, sending Weiss stumbling to her knees. “I _earned_ it,” she snarls.

While she’s distracted, Blake seizes the chance. Pounces. Post-impact, she, the other girl, and a shower of small reptiles tumble into the undergrowth, landing before Weiss as she drags herself upright and summons a glyph.

“Hold on!” the princess cries, then sticks one hand into the magic circle. It disappears up to the elbow, drawing a sputter of disbelief from the Amitola jungle’s guardian before Blake pins her between her paws

“What are you doing?” grumbles the werecat. “You're supposed to take limbs off the _enemy_.”

The princess ignores her, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth as the visible portion of her arm wiggles back and forth. “I almost have it…”

Recovering at last, the jungle spirit corkscrews in Blake’s grasp, knees digging into her belly. Yowling, the shapeshifter swipes one heavy paw, but her captive is already gone.

She doesn’t have long to wonder where, a slender arm soon winding around the panther’s muscled neck.

“ _Enemy_? Why are you helping her, Blake?” Her opponent’s breath tickles her ear, the cord of her weapon slipping around Blake’s jaws. “You should be on my side, not the Schnee’s!”

In response, Blake shifts to faunus shape, the smaller form easily slipping free. “I’m not on her side.” As they face off, her ears stand tall, her claws unsheathe. Ilia aims her crackling whip. “ _She’s_ on _mine_.”

Their clash is far from easy. Blake has the advantage in strength, speed, and—to be blunt—skill; but her foe has home-field advantage, the rainforest on her side. Everywhere the nagual leaps, she has to take care to avoid the carpet of reptiles, not just for their sake, but for hers. She’s fairly certain some of them are toxic.

Panther-shaped once again, she chases the slippery spirit up one tree and back down another. Through streams and mud and leaves that sting at her skin and creepers that ensnare her paws. All the while, Weiss rummages through her portal, always “Just one more second!” from finding whatever it is she’s searching for.

“Got it!” Blake feels her feet stutter at her companion’s cry, fangs barely missing the bright orange Ilia. She spits and curses, but both their heads swing toward Weiss as her hand reappears, brandishing something long and thin in their direction.

Blake blinks, setting all four paws on the ground. “I’m flattered,” she quips. “But this really isn't the time.”

The lily droops in Weiss’s hand. “No—” Pale cheeks flush red as any tree frog. “I meant—” Lips thinning to an embarrassed line, her arm plunges back into the glyph.

A cruel snicker escapes from the jungle’s guardian, turning to a wheeze halfway. She’s as winded as Blake, hands bracing on her knees as she sends the werecat an appraising glance. “I know it’s been a while, but how are you friends with something so useless?” With a weary skip and hop, she scales the nearest tree, sticking comfortably halfway up the trunk.

“She’s not _completely_ useless.” Blake’s defense is halfhearted, and they all know it.

Ilia gives her a flat look. “I’ve been watching you for the past hour.”

“And we’re not friends,” says Blake belatedly. “She’s just… the best Schnee that I could find.”

“Not a high bar.” Her adversary leans back, toying with her ponytail. “So, how have you—”

“There!”

They look back to see Weiss, Myrtenaster now gleaming in her hand. “Congratulations,” mutters Blake. “But I think we—”

The air tingles as a glyph appears beside her, pulsing black. This is shortly followed by a yelp as the protector of the Amitola Jungle smacks into it at some speed, electric lash falling from her hand. When Ilia tries to sit up, her throat meets cold metal, Weiss pinning her with a glare as sharp as her blade.

Clearly, she hadn't been happy about that ‘useless’ remark.

“Typical,” spits the spirit. “Go ahead, then. Do your w—”

“I’m not going to ‘do’ anything.” The princess gives her eyes a truly mighty roll. “Don’t be so melodramatic.”

“You’re a Schnee,” hisses Ilia.

"True." Weiss inclines her head.

Meanwhile, Blake scans the rainforest around them, nostrils flaring as she catches a whiff of warning pheremones. “Ice Queen—”

"But I will not be judged by my father’s crimes,” Weiss continues, chest inflating. “I don’t care if you believe me, but I am _not_ —"

“Weiss!”

The shorter girl looks up, finally noting the rustling all around them. Then she goes very, very still. “Are they…”

“Yes.” Blake swallows. “No. Sudden. Moves.”

She’d never even imagined that frogs could look so threatening. Though the fact that there are several hundred of them—alongside hordes of other assorted reptiles and amphibians— _might_ have something to do with it.

“Fine.” Ilia’s voice rises from the undergrowth, the spirit not having twitched from her prone position. “Let’s talk.”

 

**STARRY NIGHT (Weiss)**

Later, after the jungle’s protectress has called off her little friends—never letting her distaste towards Weiss falter in the slightest—they make camp. The spirit, Ilia, soon vanishes into the trees, vowing to return in the morning.

“If the princess is still alive,” she’d added, pulling a chuckle from Blake, the traitor.

As the rustling of Ilia’s departure fades, Weiss jabs furiously at their fire with a stick. Of course, all the gesture does is singe her knuckles.

 _Perfect_. She’s half a second from licking her wounds like an animal when the ragged cuff of her dress catches her eye and the pain is replaced by an entirely different kind.

What is she _doing_? She’s grubbing around in the dirt, in a none-too-welcoming rainforest, leagues from home and with only a surly skin-changer for company. And even if she were back at the palace, with all its comforts and fresh clothing, her father and brother would be trying to _kill her_. Or lock her away like Winter at the very least…

“Are you crying?”

She blots her eyes with an already-stained sleeve. “No.”

It’s small comfort that Blake sounds as uneasy as the exiled princess feels. “Er… Is something wrong?”

Weiss glares across the fire with red-rimmed eyes.

“Right. Stupid question.”

They lapse back into uncomfortable silence as a single tear drips from her nose. But then…

The feline ears atop the shapeshifter’s otherwise human head perk up. “Do you hear that?” She sits up, amber eyes squinting into the darkness. “It sounds like—”

“Music,” Weiss agrees. A tinkling melody floats down from above, soon accompanied by a ribbon of orange flame that spirals to a stop just above their campfire. Before their eyes, it flares, then winks out as suddenly as it came, leaving a fiery afterimage under Weiss’s eyelids.

“Your fallen tears have called to me…” singsongs a sultry voice. “Now, my darling girl, how may I—”

“Who the %^&@ are you?” demands Blake, fangs flashing in the firelight. Her burst of vulgarity shakes Weiss out of her startled state, and the princess stands to take in their guest, one hand on Myrtenaster’s pommel.

To her weary surprise, it’s their second attractive female stranger of the day. This one is clad in a crimson sheathe dress embroidered with gold; with flawless, milky skin and dark hair coiled high upon her head. The largest hint toward her inhuman nature is the set of smoky wings that sparkle on her back, elegant as spun glass.

Her eyes barely pause as they slide over the werecat, zeroing in on Weiss like twin torches. “Why, sweet snowflake,” she says, a purr in her voice that would put Blake to shame, “I’m your fairy godmother.”

There’s a wand in her hand, the twisty black rod tipped by an orange crystal. The gem is carved into something halfway between a leaf and a tongue of flame, its facets glimmering in the firelight.

Weiss folds her arms, remembering what she’d been told as a child. “ _You're_ the fairy of Autumn?”

“Of course.” A smile is aimed her way, so warm she feels herself start to sweat. “My name is Cinder. Cinder…” Her dulcet tones falter for the briefest of moments. “Fall. Yes, Cinder Fall.”

Blake’s low growl echoes off the trees. “I thought the Autumn Fairy was named Am—”

“Change in management, dearie.” The fairy doesn’t even look at Weiss’s companion while cutting her off. “I’ve been looking forward to our meeting, Princess Schnee. It is an honor.”

“The honor is mine,” Weiss replies automatically. “Although, the title isn't quite accurate at the moment, I must admit.” Best to be cautious; this so-called godmother of hers seems like someone from Father’s side of the family tree. “I’m hardly in a position to claim any advantage from my name.”

Without so much as twitching a muscle, Cinder’s smile turns dark. “That can be remedied. With our help.”

 _Our?_ A twig snaps, and Weiss turns halfway to look over one shoulder. She hears Blake hiss as the skin-changer does the same, spotting their other guests at once.

“And they are?” asks the nagual through gritted teeth.

“Oh, we’re fairies too,” claims the smaller of the two, a green-haired young woman with eyes like blood.

In the silence that follows, Weiss can just barely hear the _snikt_ of Blake’s claws sliding from her fingertips. “Really. And what are you the fae of?”

“Ayahuasca,” the strange girl answers promptly, her grin as wide as it is false. Below her smile, a pair of sickle-bladed knives flash through the air, spinning idly from hand to hand. “I’m Emerald. This is Mercury, fairy of—”

“Iron,” fills in her companion. Tall and slim, hair the color of his namesake, he steps forward with an audible _clink_. One arm is armored, the other bare and holding a sword, while the tip of a spear peeks over his shoulder.

 _Exactly how fast can I summon my glyphs?_ wonders Weiss. _Faster than they can charge?_ She prays they’re not about to find out.

“Aren’t all the fair folk deathly allergic to iron?” she wonders aloud.

"Almost all. I..." The young man pauses, mouth ajar. “I ate my vegetables,” is what he finally settles on, drawing a groan from Emerald.

“Moron. Like they’ll believe—”

“ _Enough_.” As their attention snaps back to Cinder, the honeyed tone soon returns. “My… little helpers and I know of your predicament, and are at your disposal, dearest. We certainly would not wish to cause you any discomfort. If you would like us to depart, all you need do is ask.”

Weiss tries not to voice her thoughts, which mostly consist of, _“Yes, please!”_ Instead, with a slow breath, she forces herself to calm. The fae—if that’s what they really are—have rules. Many rules. Rules even less forgiving than those back in Father’s court. If these are pretenders, then they’ll keep up a façade, at least.

“I am… flattered by your interest,” she says. “However, for the moment, my goals lie away from the throne. If that should change, I am certain you will be the first to know.” Her head bows. “But ere the hour grows late, I fear I must dismiss you and your vassals.” A cough clears her dry throat. “Ah… do you have a card, or something?”

“If that is what you wish.” Cinder bows from the waist, twists one hand, and the fey trio vanishes in a bloom of fire. As the flames disperse, a small cardboard rectangle flutters down to Weiss’s waiting palm.

After prowling a quick circuit around their campsite, Blake hunkers back down by the fire, brooding even more than usual.

“Did she say she was summoned by your _tears_?”

Despite the gloom, Weiss feels a giggle rise in her chest. “Yes,” she laughs, gratified when her companion does the same. A glance at the card in her hand pulls another scoff from her lips. “After all, happiness is ‘just a teardrop away’.”

“Real godmother of the year material.”

Ilia reappears just as their chuckles die out, head poking down from the canopy.

“Okay,” says the jungle spirit, a scowl on her freckled face. “Who’s been scorching my trees?”

 

**BETTER OUT THAN IN (Blake)**

“I _told_ you we shouldn’t have come in here.”

Though low in volume, the hiss from Weiss is shrill enough to stab at all four of Blake’s ears. “Yes, Your Highness,” she snarls back. “And I ignored you. As I wish I could be doing now.”

Her companion settles onto the cushioned seat of their booth, wincing as her movement produces a rubbery _squeak_. “Hmph.” A pause. “Do you think the frog girl sent us into a trap?”

Blake tosses her head. In her hulking hybrid form, she lacks the flowing locks to really pull off the gesture, but it makes her feel better. “Probably not. Ilia just doesn’t get out of her jungle much.” A pause. “She’s more of a chameleon, anyway.”

“Wonderful,” Weiss grits out, ignoring the aside. “We’ve been doomed by outdated travel directions.”

 _‘Doomed’_. Blake rolls her eyes. “Pipe down, Princess, someone’s coming.”

The clack of footsteps approaches, their owner stopping before the travelers’ table. “Welcome t’ Beacon’s,” drawls a dull-eyed waitress. “I’ll be helpin’ you t’day. Somethin’ t’ drink for starters?”

From within her hood, Weiss coughs delicately. “A water, please. Filtered, if you have it.” So far, she’s done her best to avoid touching anything in the—admittedly greasy—little inn, swaddled in her newly-acquired cape as if terrified of her plebian surroundings.

The princess had been both too proud and too paranoid to buy new clothing herself, but Blake had bound her ears and slipped into a town to pawn the lake spirit’s golden sword. She hadn't been expecting much, but the resulting sum of lien had been almost insulting, barely enough to purchase supplies and the drab but sturdy travelling cloak. Weiss had burned with shame as she accepted the used clothing, lips pressed tight to prevent herself from prying too far into its origins.

Then again, perhaps it’s the tavern’s clientele that has her so spooked. They’re… _mostly_ human, but only in the way a werewolf or minotaur can be ‘mostly human’.

“Milk,” growls Blake. “Leave the bottle.” She has a feeling she’s going to need it.

By the time their drinks arrive, Weiss has graduated to glancing furtively about the room. Coupled with her low hood and nervous twitches, this only serves to make her one of the most conspicuous customers in the tavern—which says something when the neighboring table hosts two pixies and an animate gingerbread man.

Passing through the Amitola basin has placed the pair in Vale, though they still have a ways to go before reaching Winter’s prison. This close to the border, things are less regulated, explaining this tavern’s colorful clientele.

“Relax,” Blake mutters, retrieving their glasses with a dark-furred arm. “Eat something. We’ll draw more attention by dashing out. I’ll have the tuna bowl,” she tells the waitress. “And my... sister will have—”

The corner of her mouth curls up as Weiss sits bolt upright, glaring across the table. “ _I_ ,” interrupts the girl, as expected, “shall have the ramen. How are your vegetables grown?”

“Inna ground.” Their server doesn’t look up from her notepad. “What size’ll you have? We got pre-large, large, extra-large, ‘n royal banquet. Fit for a queen,” she adds without enthusiasm.

“I very much doubt that,” Blake hears her companion grumble. Then, more audibly, “Pre-large, thank you.”

The nagual spends the rest of their wait lapping at her pint glass of milk and eyeing their fellow customers—much more subtly than Weiss, naturally. On second glance, most of them aren’t nearly as threatening as they’d appeared. Loud and rough around the edges, maybe. Unwashed, certainly. But not _hostile_ , per se.

Though, on third glance, this is far from the sort of place that would take kindly to the presence of a Schnee, so it’s probably best if Weiss keeps the hood up.

She’s probably just being paranoid. Aside from Ilia, who’d been surprisingly helpful once they’d convinced her not to frog Weiss to death; and Cinder, who has fairy magic on her side, they’ve actually attracted very little attention. If they can keep under the radar, this quest might even be—

Oh, Blake _really_ should have known better. Mid-self-reassurance, her eyes pass over the tavern’s bar and the skin-changer feels every hair stand on end.

“Ice Queen,” she says as softly as she can. “Look. Above the bar.”

“Don’t call me—” Blake’s claws gouge into the table, and Weiss looks. Then lets out a muted screech. “Wanted posters? Already?”

“Doesn’t look much like you, does it?” muses Blake.

“Maybe that’s because of the _knife_ rammed through my _face_.”

Nodding, the shapeshifter consults her mental map. “Whoever’s putting them up must be ahead of us, which means… if your father had committed more of his troops, he might have found us already.”

“Shockingly, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“At least you’re worth a few million lien?” Blake tries.

This actually does coax a laugh from her companion. A thin, bitter one, but with this girl, she’ll take what she can get.

Their food soon arrives, but Blake doesn’t have long to enjoy it. As she expertly strips the meat from a fried fish and her companion squints at the noodles before her, a scarecrow of a man appears by their table. He’s tall and thin, but with a certain wiry strength, as evidenced by the Weiss-sized sword on his back. When they look up with matching expectant expressions, he just grins back, swaying slightly.

“Move along,” sniffs the princess. “We’re not interested in whatever you're selling.”

“Heh.” Stumbling slightly, the stranger leans on the table. A cloud of alcohol seems to come with him, burning at Blake’s nose. “Haven't seen you two in here before.” At the werecat’s warning rumble, he raises the offending hand, but doesn’t step back. “Easy there, puss. Just being friendly.”

In reply, she gives him a friendly smile. She and all thirty of her fangs.

“What do you _want_?” Weiss snaps.

“I’m Qrow,” the man bows—or maybe that’s just more intoxicated wobbling. “I own this place.” His words are just this side of slurring, but a sharpness in his eye tells Blake that he’s likely not nearly as drunk as he seems. “An' who might you be?”

Then he belches, and her nostrils close up out of sheer self-preservation. Qrow’s breath—or perhaps ‘fumes’ would be a better term—washes over their table, and that seems to be Weiss’s final straw.

“Better out than in,” the man hiccups, giving his stomach a satisfied pat.

“I don’t care who you are,” the princess spits, eyes burning beneath her hood. “Either you leave, or we will. Honestly, I don’t care which.”

Qrow’s smile just broadens. “You remind me of this girl I know,” he chuckles. “She—”

“I have no interest in your… your _floozies_ ,” huffs Weiss, starting to shuffle out of the booth. “Come on, Blake, we’re going.”

As she shoulders her way past Qrow, he shrugs, hands coming up in surrender. Blake will never be sure if his finger catches the edge of her hood on purpose, but, well… he doesn’t look too displeased when the covering falls back.

“Hoo,” the man whistles. Weiss freezes, hair blazing white among their dingy surroundings. “I’m flattered. A Sch—”

Blake doesn’t bother to retract her claws as she claps a paw over his mouth. In her current form, she’s a head shorter than Qrow, but with much more muscle. “We don’t want any trouble,” she snarls.

He hasn’t stopped smiling. She can feel it against her palm. “Umf. Nmphm drm—”

She moves her paw.

“Like I was saying,” says Qrow, wiping his mouth, “neither do I.”

Weiss, at the ready with sword and spell, purses her lips. “But the poster by the bar.”

“Huh?” The man follows her gesture. “Oh. Yeah, look… two feet to the right?”

They do. There, a little further down the wall, his scruff-covered face smirks back, accompanied by a bounty that almost matches Weiss’s.

“You’re practically one of us,” he laughs, long arms flung out wide.

This doesn’t make Weiss much happier. “That is… good to hear,” she mumbles. “But this place is full of witnesses. If Father finds out you saw me—”

Qrow cuts her off with a wave, then turns to the rest of the tavern. “Hey! Anyone here on speaking terms with the King?”

“ _#@% &_ THE KING!” comes roaring back from several dozen throats.

For the first time that Blake has seen, Weiss smiles.

 

**INTERLUDE- UNINVITED GUESTS (Velvet)**

“Clear?”

Velvet hops to the corner and peers around. “Cleah!” she reports, then keeps moving, paws soft on the flagstones. Coco passes her in a few long strides, wooden legs pumping as she power-walks toward their destination. _We’re late_ , the bunny stresses. _We’re late! For a very important infiltration_.

When they arrive, Yatsuhashi and Fox are already there, a pair of Schnee’s jackbooted thugs senseless at their feet. “What took so long?” whispers Fox, his tail lashing fretfully. “We’ve been waiting for _minutes_ , and we don’t exactly blend in.”

It’s true. Yatsu is a golem carved of pure jade, and Fox is… well, guess. Like Coco, the former is painted white and crammed into armor stripped off a clockwork Atlesian Knight, but there’s no disguising his less humanoid companion. Had they been subjected to any amount of scrutiny, the jig would have been up.

With an apologetic twitch of her nose, Velvet hops onto Coco’s lowered hand, brandishing their prize as the homunculus raises her to eye level. “The key was where our inside mate said it would be,” she explains. “But there were some complications.”

Mute as always, Yatsu cocks his head in concern.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” boasts Coco, discarding her helmet in favor of her beloved beret. “Those toy soldiers are absolute garbage at fighting things like us.”

She and Yatsu are animated wood and enchanted stone, respectively. Meanwhile, the robotic soldiers favored by Atlas were only really built to sense and interact with humans. They can deal with Grimm and other less intelligent magical beasts, but add some paint and stolen armor, and Velvet’s fellow revolutionaries confuse the oil out of those automatons.

The Knights’ identification systems are just one of many blunders stemming from Führer Schnee’s anthropocentrism, blunders that Velvet and her teammates never hesitate to use to their advantage. It’s only right, in Velvet’s opinion, that the Revolution punish every failing of the old regime. It will make the eventual downfall of their foes all the sweeter.

“Yes, yes.” Fox scrabbles at the door before them. “Now, long-ears, if you would do the honors.”  

Sticking her tongue out at the moniker, Velvet pushes their plundered key into the lock. “Gotcha,” she mutters, and they’re in. Yatsu stuffs the guards into a convenient closet, then slips inside and closes the door behind them, brick-like fists moving with deceiving delicacy.

Once inside, the rabbit leaps from Coco’s hand to a nearby table, eyes scanning the treasury. “Don’t know what I expected,” she hears the homunculus drawl. “But this is somehow worse.”

Velvet agrees. She’d half expected Schnee to be melting down the confiscated magical items, oppressor that he is. But the despot has merely been hoarding them, piling them up in this dusty old vault. Chests and sacks fill the chamber, ancient artifacts and priceless relics tossed carelessly onto heaps of gold and gems.

“Does anyone see it?” asks Fox, nosing around a rack of silver swords. “It should be somewhere—Yatsuhashi, _no_!”

The others spin to catch Yatsuhashi looking up, guilt all over his rough-hewn face. His helmet is off, and a gold chain dangles from his lips, the golem doing his best not to look like he’s still chewing. Velvet giggles, and broad shoulders hitch in a shrug, one blocky hand jabbing back towards the hall.

“He’s roight,” she agrees. “There’s no harm. They’ll know someone was heah once they find the guards. A little snack won’ give us away, Fox.”

“Well then, we’d better pick up the pace.” At Coco’s words, they resume their search.

It doesn’t take much longer; only a few tense minutes later, Fox’s whistle brings his partners running.

Velvet skids around a corner, nearly knocking over a bundle of obsidian arrows in her haste. Pausing only to prop up the toppling quiver, she arrives just in time to see Fox rear onto his hand legs and yank at a hanging cloth with his teeth. It falls away to reveal the objective of their infiltration, and as the mirror swirls to life, the rabbit hops onto her comrade’s back, making herself comfortable among the orange fur.

For the blink of an eye, she sees a ghostly head bent over an equally spectral chessboard. Then he looks up, scowling as the game vanishes.

“Oh, what is it this ti—” The wizard stops mid-sentence, frown curling into a smile. “Ah, a sight for sore eyes.”

Fox gives his best attempt at a salute. “Good to see you too, Ozpin, sir. Are you unharmed?”

“I’m a mirror. If I were harmed, you’d have to sweep me off the floor.” The twinkle in his eye takes any sting out of the retort. “I’m more interested in how you managed to escape the clutches of”—his voice rises to a sonorous boom—“HIGH KING JACQUES SCHNEE, SUPREME RULER OF ALL ATLAS. Sorry,” he continues at a more normal volume. “He’s been messing around with my settings.”

Fox, bunny, golem, and homunculus roll their eyes in unison. “Compensate much?” snorts Coco. “Anyway, there was some kind of mix-up at processing. A witch got free, distracted the goons. We saw our shot and stole a prison wagon. Been on the move ever since. You know; dodging Schnee, gathering allies, keeping up the good fight.”

“Hit two processing centers just this week!” adds Fox. “Got all the prisoners out, no sweat. Found a nice pair of werecats willing to stash ‘em, too. They’re safe for now.”

“Very well done.”

“We heard you’d been captured.” Velvet takes up the thread. “So when someone offahd to get us to the palace, we _had_ to see for ourselves. A little risky getting all the way in here, but worth it.”

“So long as we don’t get _caught_ ,” Fox reminds them, nose poking toward the door. “Ask him quickly!”

The rabbit bobs her head. “Roight! _O Oz, the great an’ powerful_ ,” she recites, “ _We come with cause most hon’rable_ —”

“Er…” the head butts in. “Just this once, you don’t _have_ to ask in verse. Schnee doesn’t,” he grumbles.

Yatsu sags, and Velvet reaches up to pat his waist. “We worked on them for ages, though. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a rhyme for ‘bourgeoisie’?”

Coco clears her throat.

“But,” sighs the bunny, “in the interest of time…” She feels her companions lean forward. “Ozpin, show us Schnee’s weakness.”

He does.

“Huh.” Fox’s tail swishes from side to side, a sign he’s deep in thought. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

Yatsu signs eloquently with stone fingers.

“True, now we have options,” agrees Coco. “At least two.”

“As long as he doesn’t find them first.” Fox glowers at the wall, still deep in thought. “Maybe…”

Velvet hops onto the fox’s head to place a paw on the looking glass. “Can we do anything to keep Schnee from trackin’ them?” she asks, ignoring her comrade’s warning growl.

The wizard smiles. “Oh,” he says, green smoke swirling behind his image, “ _that_ , I can do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: At long last, they reach Winter's prison.


	3. A Minor Hiccup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroines make their way through fire and brimstone to meet new allies, but not the ones they expect…

**SAVING WEISS’S ASS (Blake)**

“Not. A. Word.”

Blake only manages to keep a straight face by changing form to a housecat—which, as anyone can tell you, are largely immune to good humor.

It seems to work. Her companion’s hackles ease, the incognito princess somehow mollified. “Good thinking,” Weiss sniffs. “I suppose we shall stand a better chance of going unnoticed if neither of us looks human.”

Then she clops in a small circle and trots down the alleyway; short, gray-furred legs pumping industriously. Blake follows the stumpy hindquarters and dangling tail onto the main street, still unable to look away from her transformed ally.

When they’d decided to save time and cut through the bustling town of Mountain Glenn, they’d known that Weiss would need a disguise. Something unexpected. Something to make those wanted posters irrelevant. That dusty old Qrow from the tavern had happened to know a charitable witch, so Blake and the princess had taken a brief detour to see what she could do. What they’d gotten…

“Madame Glynda really did her best on that charm.” Blake can't resist any longer. “No one’s _ever_ going to think you're a princess.”

The donkey glares daggers as the black cat bounds onto her back. “When I said I wanted a shape ‘beneath notice’, I meant—”

Oh, Blake knows what she’d _meant_. “Shush,” purrs the werecat. “Don’t argue. No one likes a smart ass.”

Her feet hit the cobbles a moment later when Weiss bucks her off, bristly ears held high.

“Paws off!”

 _Look at her go_. The royal donkey prances with the same purposeful strut as her usual shape—which, translated to four legs, threatens to make Blake seasick. The werecat shakes herself clean, then races to catch up.

“You know,” she calls, good cheer undimmed, “the disguise only truly succeeds if you don’t talk…”

Weiss opens her mouth, pauses, and snaps it shut, fury in her eyes.

 _O, blessed silence._ Never has Blake been so happy to take a shortcut.

Though nerve-wracking at times, their plan goes off without a hitch; the town at large ignoring both animals entirely. The transmogrified princess sulks the whole way, only fueling Blake’s barely-stifled mirth. By the time they’re through and on the road again, some of the novelty has worn off. Not much, though.

“At _last_ ,” breathes Weiss. “I’m ready to turn back.”

Blake rises onto two legs, fur receding as her paws shift to hands, and strokes her chin. “Turn back. Right. I may have forgot to mention…”

The princess shakes her short mane. “Blake,” she warns, pawing at the cobbles.

“Now, don’t be upset,” begins the nagual.

“ _Blake_.”

“But the spell is more of a… time limit, kind of thing.” Blake nods. “On the bright side, it’ll definitely wear off before we reach the tower.”

“BLAKE.”

The werecat starts running.

 

**DRAGON! (Weiss)**

“So that’s the tower.”

Weiss swallows thickly. “Yes.”

“You could’ve _mentioned_ the volcano.”

“Hmph.” The princess crosses her arms. “Now you know how it feels.”

Her companion rolls her eyes. “Are you still mad about the donkey thing? It wore off in the end, didn’t it?”

“There’s a bridge, isn't there?” Weiss mimics the nagual’s tone.

“A thousand feet in the air! Over a boiling lake of lava!”

“Afraid of heights,” retorts Weiss, glaring down at the housecat nervously licking itself by her side. It hasn’t escaped her that the skin-changer is in her lightest, least bridge-straining form. “Wonderful.”

“Again. _Lava_.” Despite her complaints, Blake scampers onto the structure—which Weiss has to admit, is rather rickety. “There’s not anything else, is there?” she calls back. “Elite guards? A dragon?”

“Guards, most likely. Probably mostly—or entirely—automatons, to avoid spies. No dragon.”

The werecat paces a little further, testing each plank before she proceeds. “Are you sure?”

“Father doesn’t trust dragons.”

“Or humans, it seems. I’m sure the feeling is mutual.” Blake looks over her shoulder. “Coming, Ice Queen? Not sure how long these ropes will last.”

As Weiss takes her first step, the boards creak beneath her shoes. “I assure you, it won't break,” she snaps.

In the end, she’s proven right. Well, seventy-five percent right, which is how far across she gets before the damned thing snaps like an overstretched waistband.

She screams as the platform drops out from beneath her, managing to grab hold of the ropes as her half of the bridge springs forward. Almost at the end, Blake manages to dash the last few yards onto solid ground, but all Weiss can do is tighten her grip as she is swung into a wall of pitted rock.

“Weiss?” A panther’s head pokes out over the edge of the cliff. “Hold on! I’ll find something to pull you up!”

Winded, she looks up, seeing the flick of Blake’s tail as the nagual dashes off. “Holding on,” Weiss mutters. _A week ago_ , she reflects, _I would not have trusted her to come back_. Now, she is… well, more than seventy-five percent sure.

Then, with two crisp _vops_ , her day gets infinitely worse.

“Ooh! Perfect timing, Emerald.”

“Thanks, Mercury. I try.”

Craning her neck, the princess finds that she has an audience. The pair of self-proclaimed fairies sit comfortably on thin air several feet away, watching her with vultures’ eyes.

“You know,” Mercury continues, “I wasn’t sure about this job at first, but it’s really growing on me. _Much_ better than my last gig.”

His partner scoffs. “Right, and what was that again? Tavern dancer or aqua-robics coach?”

“I _wish_. Don’t have the legs for either.” He grins wolfishly. “But we’re being rude. Hanging in there, Your Highness?” One hand tugs at his upturned collar. “And you couldn’t’ve picked a better place to be in mortal peril? The heat is really drying out my skin.”

Weiss tries to ignore them.

“Saving your breath,” hums Emerald. “Smart girl.”

“What do you _want_?” grits the princess, too desperate for subtlety. Below, the molten lake burbles with anticipation, magma splashing against the cliff walls. Above, there’s no sign of her companion. All around her, plumes of sulfur fill the air, adding the smell of bad eggs to the hellish tableau.

And suddenly, Cinder is there. Her alleged fairy godmother, leaning between her subordinates with a hand on Emerald’s shoulder. Her wings fluttering, her wand held up with a flourish. “Only to help you, snow pea.” Her breath gusts over Weiss’s cheek, even hotter than the updraft from the lava below. “You seem to have gotten yourself into a tight spot.” The crystal of her scepter taps the girl’s nose, pulsing softly as the so-called fairy hums.

 “What’s your price?” Weiss gasps out. Her fingers are starting to cramp, but she dares not release them even for a moment. “If you wanted to help from the goodness of your heart, you would have done so already.”

Lips curling up at the corners, Cinder presses a hand to her breast. “You wound me.”

“I _wish_.”

“Hah! I like her,” states Emerald. “Much more backbone than the last princess.”

Mercury rubs his arms, an exaggerated shiver shaking his form. “Yeah, remember what the boss did to h—”

“Not in front of the mark!” hisses his companion, then winces. “I mean… the client?”

“That will do.” With a flick of Cinder’s wand, her lackeys vanish. “So hard to find good help these days,” she tuts.

“I… know… what you… mean.” Weiss’s arms are starting to shake. And she could swear that the air is getting impossibly warmer. “And speaking… of help…”

The fairy taps her chin with one elegant finger. “You were right. Everything comes with a price. Are you willing to pay it?”

The princess lets her forehead knock against the plank before her. “A little difficult if I don’t know what ‘it’ _is_.”

“I’m not entirely certain myself,” muses Cinder. “I haven't quite decided. A lock of hair, perhaps. A drop of blood. The happiest day of your childhood…”

Weiss manages to snort. “You wouldn’t get your money’s worth with that one.”

Cinder’s answering smile is downright demonic. “Bitter soil bears the sweetest fruit,” she murmurs. “Do we have an accord?”

“I—”

“Weiss!” Relief floods her veins at the sound of Blake’s voice. “Still there?”

“Don’t sound so disappointed!” the princess shouts back. “And _hurry_. I’m—” But when she looks back, Cinder is nowhere to be found.

A few blessedly silent moments later, a link of chain smacks her on the head. Weiss grabs it with numb fingers, her arms and legs winding around the metal as Blake hauls her up.

“You’re welcome,” says the werecat, rolling her eyes even as she guides Weiss to solid ground.

“Thank you.” She means it. “Another few seconds, and…”

A hand brushes over her head, barely patting the disarrayed hair. “I need you, remember?” Blake doesn’t quite smile, her golden eyes meeting Weiss’s. “And if you don’t keep your word, I can always drag you back here and throw you in.”

“Oh, you could try.” Heart still tap-dancing in her chest, Weiss lies back against the relatively cool stone. Winter’s tower twists into the sky above, surrounded by a small keep. She’ll rest for a few breaths, then go inside. _Just a moment more_ …

Hold the phone. She sits up. “Where are the guards?”

Her companion shrugs. “Weren’t any. Lots of broken Knights, but they haven't been active for a while, judging from the smell. Nothing down here but brimstone and rubble.”

The blood freezes in her veins, her gaze rising to the building. There’s a light in the highest room, where her sister should be. _But without guards,_ she wonders, _what’s keeping her there?_

Weiss feels Blake stiffen a second before she does. For an unending instant, everything goes still. The breeze dies. The lava calms. Flecks of ash seem to freeze in the air.

And then the dragon lands.

 

**ONE OF A KIND KNIGHT (Blake)**

“WINTER!” For someone who’d been flat on the ground mere seconds ago, Weiss has quite the turn of speed. She dashes through the open gates in the blink of an eye, leaving both Blake and the dragon in her dust as she sprints for her sister’s prison.

Blake _understands_ , but that still leaves her alone with a lizard the size of a house. With a soft groan, the skin-changer rolls her neck and shifts, fur replacing her clothes as she drops into the shape of a panther. Before the dragon can react, she turns tail to follow Weiss, darting into the relative shelter of the keep. Here, she can keep it busy for some time.

She hopes.

Seconds later, the force of the creature’s bellow shakes the stone walls around her. Its head soon follows, spiked antlers gouging chunks out of the masonry as it bulls through with barely a flinch. Long and sinuous, the coils of its body spill into the courtyard, pulled along by short but muscled forelimbs. Its lack of wings apparently has no effect on its ability to fly, as evidenced by its thunderous descent a few minutes ago.

The nagual does her best to stay out of its reach, dodging between pillars and heaps of rubble. The castle is half collapsed already, but any hopes of tricking the lizard into trapping itself fade away once she sees it move. The dragon winds through the air like a gleaming ribbon, nimble even in these crowded surroundings. Flames puff from its nostrils as it gives chase, always at Blake’s heels, never giving her time to plan.

 _Time for change of pace_.

A deep breath, a ripple of her muscles, and she flips backward in hybrid form. Her midnight pelt glimmers as she lands on the dragon’s neck, claws sinking in as it immediately rolls in midair. With the brawn of a great cat and the dexterity of a humanoid, this shape is her best shot—

That’s as far as she gets before she’s bucked off.

Blake bounces once before landing on her feet, foot-pads sliding across the stone. She dives to avoid her opponent’s tail, rolls under a scything rear claw, and leaps, clawing her way up the lizard’s side. The trunk of its body heaves beneath her arms, but she hangs on for dear life with all four limbs. It’s all the shapeshifter can do—aside from going for the kill, and she’d never do that to something this magnificent.

The dragon sure doesn’t make it easy. Blake is slammed into countless walls, scraped repeatedly against what’s left of the ceiling before her foe finally tires, descending to the ground with a final whip-crack of its length. She waits for several tense seconds before withdrawing her claws and slithering down, but the beast just lets out a belch of smoke, apparently having decided that she’s not worth the trouble.

When Blake circles around to its head, she’s met with an irritated glance. At least, she thinks that’s what it is; she can only see one side of the dragon’s face, most prominently a glittering crimson eye the size of her head.

“You fought well,” she gasps, switching to faunus shape and wiping her brow.

“Yeah, yeah,” the beast grumbles. “You too.”

The skin-changer nearly jumps out of hers. “You can _talk_?”

A rumble from the dragon’s chest sends tremors through the courtyard. “Hmph. I could say the same to you.”

Blake has to concede the point. She’ll admit, there hadn't been much attempt for communication on either end.

“You’re the weirdest would-be rescuer I’ve seen in years,” continues the massive reptile. “What kind of knight _are_ you?”

“One of a kind.” Her form changes once again, this time to that of a housecat. No other shape in her arsenal does _smug_ as well as a housecat. “Do I _look_ like a knight?”

A shrug travels the length of the dragon’s neck. “Dunno. Usually all I see is their backs. From a distance.” A boastful note enters its tone. “After you torch the first hundred or so, word gets around. Thugs and bullies, the lot of them. Plus,” it adds, “my vision is different in this body.”

“In _this_ —You can change your form.”

She’s never seen a dragon make finger guns before. “Got it in one. Here…”

Its transformation is nothing like Blake’s. Which is good, because there’s no way watching that much dragon compact into something human-sized could be anything but horrifying. White smoke fills the air, pouring from the creature’s shrinking form and soon concealing the other shapeshifter from view.

When it clears, she finds herself looking at the far-from-horrifying sight of a very beautiful, very naked woman. As golden as her dragon form’s scales and with the same aura of effortless strength, she grins down at Blake, lilac eyes crinkling. A tangle of sunshine-yellow hair falls against her back, hanging past broad shoulders and a toned abdomen to reach below her hips.

“Hey!” she chirps, smile widening. “You aren’t afraid to stare! None of that cover-your-eyes, please-find-some-clothes stuff.” The woman snorts, flames guttering in her nostrils. “Humans, am I right?”

While Blake is no stranger to the nudity that often comes with shapeshifting, she still feels her cheeks warm. There’s positive self-image, and then there’s… this. The view alone would probably give Weiss the mother of all heart attacks, a prospect the nagual envisions for a long, happy moment before shaking her head.

“Maybe you should find some,” she suggests. “Clothes, I mean. My companion is much more tightly wound than I am.”

Sighing, the dragon—

Blake feels a wrinkle appear between her eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Yang!” proclaims the woman. “Yang Xiao Long. Yours?”

“Blake Belladonna.”

— _Yang_ , the werecat amends—snaps her fingers, summoning a set of scaly brown armor in another puff of smoke. “Sooo,” says the former dragon. “What brings you and your loud little friend to my little patch of hell?”

“We’re not friends.” The denial is pure reflex at this point. “She’s looking for her sister.”

“Uh huh.” Yang nods expectantly. “And…”

The shapeshifter cocks her head. “Is there _not_ a princess in your tower?”

“That a euphemism?”

Blake points.

“ _Oh_. You mean Winter! Yeah, she’s long g—”

“AaiIEE!” From above comes a scream; startled, ear-piercing, and unmistakably _Weiss_.

Yang looks at Blake.

Blake looks at Yang.

“Shouldn’t we—”

“Probably, yeah.”

With a shared groan, they start running.

 

**HELMET HAIR (Weiss)**

Weiss takes the stairs two at a time, racing upward to her sister’s chamber.

For a few minutes, at least. Then her legs start to cramp and she’s forced into a much less dignified stagger, one hand braced against the wall, the other holding her rapier. The dragon’s probably chewed through all the guards by now, but better safe than sorry.

Myrtenaster is thankfully unneeded, the princess reaching her goal without further obstruction. At the top of the spiraling staircase, Weiss pauses, panting, for several moments before standing up straight and doing her best to smooth out her travel-worn clothes. She knows Winter won’t hesitate to lecture her on proper standards of appearance, not even during a rescue.

As composed as she’s going to get, Weiss pushes open the door, posture rigid as she marches into the room beyond. “Winter!” she calls.

The figure by the bed turns, white cloak brushing the floor and— _That’s odd_. Weiss doesn’t remember her sister having a fondness for helmets. Especially indoors.

Winter had also never been overly fond of sweets, but near every flat surface in her chambers is festooned with sugary snacks. The magazines strewn across the bedside table are even more a surprise; the Winter she recalls wouldn’t be caught dead with a copy of _Bows Illustrated_. Or _Grimm Weekly_. _Tactics and Trebuchets_ , perhaps, but she would never bend the spines in such a careless fashion.

“Um,” says Winter. “Yes?” Her throat clears. “ _Hem hem_. I mean: Yes, it is I, Winter Schnee, most highest princess...est of Atlas." She pauses. "So, what's up?”

Winter sounds much less authoritative than the younger Schnee remembers. Of course, they’d last spoken quite some time ago.

“I’m here to rescue you.”

Weiss also remembers Winter towering over her. She supposes it’s _possible_ that her sister has grown this little over the past eight years, but…

“Right. Very good.” Winter’s tone changes, sharpening into something more like the stern bark of Weiss’s childhood. “Well done you.”

The princess feels her brow wrinkle. “Winter, surely you can remove your helmet.”

“Ah… No,” replies her sister. “I—I possess helmet hair!”

Her lips curve into a frown. “Please,” she insists. “I wouldst see the face of my sister after all these years.”

“Sister? Wh—” Winter coughs, the sound echoing within her headgear. “Um, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t…st.”

Her frown grows to a suspicious glower. “Take. Off. The helmet.”

A final test, Winter would _never_ tolerate such a tone.

“Look,” wheedles the other woman. “I really don’t think—”

Weiss draws her sword. “Now!”

“Fine!”

The helmet clatters to the floor, rolling across to Weiss’s feet. When she looks back up, however, the headgear has been replaced by the deep hood of her companion’s cloak, the woman’s face still masked by shadows.

“What a pretty hood you have.” Weiss notes, rolling her eyes.

“Thanks. I got it from my mother.”

 _But…_ The princess purses her lips. “Wasn’t it white just a moment ago?” Now the cloth is a bold red, drawing the eye even as as she stoops to peer underneath. The other woman doesn’t reply, or move to stop her, just shuffles her feet and wrings her hands.

Sword at the ready, Weiss squints into the darkness, and sees…

“My,” she notes. “What bright eyes you have.”

Not-Winter takes a step back. “Got those from my mother, too. Heh heh,” she laughs weakly. “Genetics, am I right?”

A twitch draws her gaze upward, to where the hood drapes around two raised points. “And what big ears you have.”

“All the better to hear your ruthless critiques,” grumbles the strange woman.

“And what large _teeth_ you have!”

“Well, that’s just rude,” huffs her companion. “You wanna see so bad? Fine!”

The hood goes back. The wolf growls.

“AaiIEE!” Weiss screams.

 

**INTERLUDE- WINTER AWAKENS (Yang)**

A pair of clockwork warriors melts to slag under the molten breath of Yang Xiao Long, part-time adventurer and full-time dragon. “Double!” she whoops, punching a fist into the air. “Ruby, did you see that?”

“This isn't a game, Yang,” grumbles her sister, bending to loot the remains. “Besides,” the younger girl pouts, “I thought you were going to let me train! You _know_ I wanted to test my modifications to Crescent Rose!”

Yang runs a hand through her hair, admiring the golden locks as they brush her cheek. “Oops, my bad.” She looks down to avoid her sister’s accusatory gaze, sees the ruined Knights, and sighs, guilt redoubled. “Besides, if you put any more accessories on that thing, It’ll be too heavy to carry! You’ll have to walk… _bow-legged_.”

“Ggghh.” Ruby throws her head back, shaking her fists towards the ceiling. “She has a perfectly reasonable number of attachments!”

The blonde shakes with a laugh. “It’s not normal to use a bow as a melee weapon,” counters Yang. “Anyway,” she continues as her little sister pouts, “I’ll let you practice on the next batch. Can you sniff any more out?”

Raising her head, Ruby breathes deeply, face extending into a lupine muzzle. “Aww,” she whines after several moments, “I think that was the last of them.”

“Really?” Yang lowers her hands, a little disappointed. “But all we’ve beaten up so far is automatons. There aren’t any people at all?”

The werewolf inhales another deep breath. “It’s hard to tell with all the sulfur… But, nope. Not nearby.” With a growl, she flings herself onto Yang’s back, small fists pounding against her sister’s shoulders. “You promised! Stop hogging all the experience!”

It only takes a moment to pluck Ruby off, holding her at arm’s length. The smaller girl’s scarlet cape flutters as she thrashes, claws scratching harmlessly at Yang’s bare torso. “Why Ruby Rose, I thought you said this wasn’t a game,” teases the dragon.

“Only because you always win!”

She releases her little sister, and Ruby flops to the stone floor with a sigh. “What kind of dungeon is this?” she wonders aloud. “There’s no good loot.”

“Technically, I think it’s more like an outpost,” points out Yang. “Maybe a small keep? Give it some credit; this is some pretty hot real estate.” The caldera outside groans in time with Ruby. “Besides, we’ve still got a few rooms to search. Plus that big tower.” The blonde feels herself grin. “Ooh, there’s gotta be something good up there.”

When they reach the tallest room, the older huntress is proven right. More or less.

“Oh.” Ruby circles the four-poster bed. “It’s just a lady.”

“Just?” Yang lets out a low whistle. “Definitely not _just_. She’s smokin’.” The dragon exhales a self-satisfied plume of smoke. “Not as much as me, obviously, but…” Well, the woman-in-white thing is really working for her, that’s all Yang’s saying.

Her sister perks up. “She must be a princess! Under some sort of spell!” A head of dark, red-tipped hair bobs up and down as she starts to bounce. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”

 _As good as that sounds…_ “Not likely,” says Yang. “I’m pretty sure she’d object.”

“Aw, sis.” Ruby slugs her on the arm. “Don’t say that. You’re a catch!”

“That’s _not_ what I was worried about,” snaps the blonde. “I just saw her move.”

Under their twin stares, the bed-bound woman holds perfectly still.

“Are you sure?” ventures Ruby. “She sure looks—”

Yang’s finger shoots out. “There! Her eyes moved!”

“Hmm. Still not seeing it,” her sister replies, leaning closer. “Are you _sure_?”

“There’s a knife in that bundle of flowers!” With a growl, Yang shoulders her aside, reaches down, and pinches the woman’s nose shut. “Look!”

Not a twitch.

“Are you—”

“She’s holding her breath!”

They wait a moment longer, to no avail.

“Yang…”

With a sucking gasp, the woman’s eyes and mouth finally snap open. When the knife just bends against Yang’s skin, her pale hands slap at the dragon’s, sharp nails digging into the softer flesh under her wrist. It still doesn’t do much good, with Yang’s durability, but points for effort.

“Unhand me, you brute!”

Yang obeys, taking a big step back for good measure. “Who are you?” she wonders aloud, which doesn’t seem to help matters.

“You're asking _me_?” scoffs the possible princess, sitting up. Fingers comb through waist-length hair as white as her gown, pale blue eyes glaring icicles at the sisters. “I live here. Who are _you_?”

“We—”

Her gaze flickers to the door to her chambers, still ajar. “How did you get in?”

“By—”

“Why are you here?”

“To—”

“Answer me!” the woman demands, drawing herself up. “Or I shall—”

“HROOAAAH!” Yang’s flames splash against the ceiling, the column of fire surging from her open mouth. “Pipe down, will ya?” The blonde snaps her jaws shut, a final wisp of smoke slipping part her lips. “You probably know more than us, lady.”

The stranger doesn’t shy away from Yang’s display of draconian ability, her mouth merely tightening to a thin frown. “That much is obvious,” she snips. As the sisters exchange an eyeroll, the white-haired woman purses her lips, then goes on. “I am Winter,” announces Winter.

“Name like that, you’ve got to be either a noble or a fairy,” muses the dragon. “Fifty-fifty that you were right, Rubes.”

Her sister doesn’t reply right away. When Yang looks over, the young werewolf has both hands clamped over her nose, sure sign of an emergent muzzle she wants to keep hidden.

Ruby’s still getting a handle on her… self. While the dragon—a spawn of two shapeshifters—has been able to morph from form to form from birth, her baby sis is half human. Her ‘in-between-ness’, according to their dad, gives Ruby flexibility. Even when human-shaped, she can manifest lupine claws or ears or what-have-you, with all the benefits that entails.

On the flip side, sometimes the wolf in her bubbles to the surface unasked. Yang always finds the partial transformations _adorable_ , but they’ve learned from experience that not everyone feels the same.

It takes another moment for the younger girl to drop her hands, face devoid of fur. “She’s gotta be a princess, sis. No wings! Aaand…” She taps the side of her nose meaningfully, then winks twice, in case Yang hadn't gotten the message, _The lady smells human_.

“Do you mind?” Winter’s acid tone cuts through their brief conference, the imperious tilt of her chin eliminating any remaining doubt. “Names, at once.”

“I’m Ruby Rose!” trills the younger sibling, cloak flapping as she snaps to attention. “Huntress-in-training!”

“Yang,” Yang supplies with rather less enthusiasm. She’s never liked nobles. They’re always warring and coup-ing, making things tougher for their subjects. “Huntress. The one putting her through said training.”

Winter looks them up and down, making the dragon glad she’d remembered to materialize herself some clothes. “Huntresses,” hums the princess. “Those are similar to adventurers, yes? Mercenaries?”

Ruby inflates with righteous indignation. “We _protect_ people,” she corrects the older woman. “We exterminate Grimm! And—”

“And I assume you accept payment?”

“We-ell…”

A clear of Yang’s throat draws the others’ attention. “Sometimes people are… generously grateful,” she says. “But not always, and that’s fine. If we need money, we can always pick up some lien by salvaging ruins ‘n dungeons ‘n stuff,” she elaborates. “Like, um, this one.”

The rooms falls into an uneasy silence.

Then, “This is not a ruin,” grits Winter. “It is a _prison_. An _active_ prison!”

“Not anymore,” Yang mutters, more than a little smug.

“A prison?” breathes Ruby. “Cooool. For who?”

That seems to snap the final thread of Winter’s patience. With an incensed huff, the princess brings her hands together, fingers tracing the strokes of a spell. In the blink of an eye, two intricate, shimmering circles of light appear between Yang and Ruby.

 _Glyphs_ , the dragon realizes. _She’s a—_

“For _me_!” At a flick of the white-haired woman’s wrist, the glyphs fly apart, pinning the sisters to opposite walls of the chamber. Yang grunts as her back hits the stone, then meets Ruby’s eye, giving her head a shake. Winter may be pissed, but she’s not homicidal. They can still talk their way out of this.

Probably.

Winter reaches back, pulls a sabre from behind her bed, then rises and starts for the door, gauzy gown whipping around her ankles. “I have been trapped here for years,” she mutters, almost to herself. “But over those years, surrounded by nothing but machines, I have had plenty of time to practice.” Her sword swings between them. “I am not to be tested.”

“So I see,” manages Yang, squirming against her rune. “What a… _pressing_ situation you’ve put us in.” As both of her companions make noises of disgust at the pun, the dragon strokes her chin as casually as she can. “But this is clearly a misunderstanding. We don’t want _anything_ with you,” she promises. “We didn’t even know you were here! So…”

The princess narrows her eyes. “What are you proposing?”

“Start over?” Fighting the pressure of Winter’s glyph, the blonde extends a hand. “Yang Xiao Long, my lady. Ever so pleased to make your acquaintanceship.”

For a few seconds, she’s not sure if the other woman will take her hand or stab it. When it turns out to be the latter, Yang beams.

“Winter Schnee.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Team RWBY, together at last, find more foes crawling out of the woodwork.


	4. Heroes and Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin to escalate.

**WHAT KIND OF QUEST (Ruby)**

“… and that’s how we met Winter,” concludes Yang.

Ruby’s sister is fully in dragon shape, most of her golden body hanging out the tower window. Her head, neck, and one foreleg have made it inside the tower room, Yang arching to match the curve of the walls. Her coils have shoved the big bed to one side—Ruby atop it—and her horned head is bent to study the young woman pinned by her claw.

“Oh, truly?” Red-faced and blue-eyed, snow-white hair rapidly escaping from its tail, Winter’s sister is far from cooperative. Though most of her body is trapped by the scaly paw, one arm and shoulder are free enough to place the tip of her rapier less than an inch from her captor’s scarlet eye. “Then unhand me, you brute! How _dare_ you assault me!”

Despite herself, Ruby is impressed. It takes a certain something to stare down a dragon, even one as young as Yang, and whatever that _something_ is, this girl is full of it. She and Winter really must be related.

“You point silver at my baby sister, I’ll do what I like,” retorts Yang, drawing a sigh from said baby. _She always does this._

“It’s mithril,” snaps the princess.

The dragon growls. “Not better.”

The scene holds for an elastic instant before a dark figure coughs pointedly from the doorway. Ruby jumps at the sudden noise, feeling her eyes widen. She hadn't sensed any hint of approach, and her senses are better than most.

“Weiss, it’s fine,” the woman says in a voice like velvet being dragged through honey. As she leaves the shadows of the hall, a pair of cat’s ears become visible among dark, tousled locks.

“Really, Blake?” Weiss—and Blake; of course their names are just as cool as the rest of them—sounds dubious, her sword only lowering a fraction of an inch. “How do we know the lizard hasn’t eaten my sister?”

Ruby bristles at the insult, but Yang only scoffs. “She was much too prickly for my taste.” Ruby can recognize the accompanying flash of teeth as a grin, but the expression startles a squeak out of their guest.

“Besides, that’s a vicious stereotype,” adds Blake. “I’m disappointed, Ice Queen. The last verified case of a man-eating dragon was over—”

“Four hundred years ago,” Ruby agrees. The young huntress-in-training probably knows more dragonlore than her sister, who’d always been more interested in hearing about the battles Dad had fought in. “I’m Ruby.” She vaults out of the bed, drawing a hiss from Yang as she skips off the curve of her neck.

As she nears Blake, an unfamiliar scent becomes apparent. Unfamiliar, but far from unpleasant. _Ooh, she smells like she sounds._

“I heard your story.” The faunus woman’s response is wry. “How long ago was that?”

“Almost a month,” Ruby thinks. “Winter packed up pretty quick once she realized she could leave. We stuck around to relax and train for a bit.”

“The magma feels good on my scales,” rumbles Yang.

In her talons, Weiss goes stiff. “A _month_? How could she—” The other girl clenches her teeth, one eye twitching. “I demand you release me at once!”

“Lighten up, Little Winter.” One puff of smoke later, a scandalized squawk alerts the werewolf to her sister’s change of shape. The claws pinning Weiss have been replaced by Yang herself, hands planted on either side of the princess’s much narrower shoulders.

She is also completely in the buff.

“Whoops,” says Yang, not a single trace of guilt in her smile. “Look away, Your Highness.”

“I’m trying,” Weiss retorts, voice strangled.

“Clothes, right.” Yang pauses, leaning back onto her heels as a hand rises to stroke her chin. “It’s weird because I’m always naked as a dragon,” muses the shapeshifter. “Or… maybe… never naked. How do humans count scales?”

Ruby stifles a laugh as Weiss’s face comes into view, pink as strawberry icing. “Where is your decency?” she sputters.

Yang pats where her pockets would have been. “Darn, must have left it in my other pants.”

“Ya-ang,” chides Ruby. Sometimes, their roles of huntress and apprentice almost seem reversed.

As the former dragon climbs to her feet and summons her armor, Blake slips closer, joining Ruby by the bed. “Have you traveled far?” she asks. “Dragons aren’t exactly common. Were your parents…”

“Dad was a werewolf,” the younger woman recites, “Mom was human, Yang’s mother was a harpy.”

“Har har,” the blonde calls. “Her family can shapeshift,” she tells the others. “Birds. Corvids, mostly, but I think we have a great-uncle who’s a bluebird.” She tosses her head, throwing the mass of her hair over one shoulder. “So, yeah, that’s why I’m a dragon.”

Weiss looks up. “That’s not remotely—”

“Aaanyway,” says Ruby. She knows better than to start an argument with Yang about magical genetics. “Why are you looking for Winter, Weiss? Besides the obvious.”

After a glance at Blake, the princess sighs and explains.

Ruby feels herself leaning forward further with every word. An exiled princess? An oppressed populace? Robots, fairies and jungle spirits? And…

“You met Uncle Qrow,” chuckles Yang. “Good to hear he’s actually spending time at that inn of his.”

“He hardly seems like an adept business owner,” accuses Weiss. “How—”

“Won it in a bet after the old owner disappeared.”

“He won it in a bet. Naturally.” Ruby doesn’t understand why she says it like that like it’s a bad thing. Everything about Uncle Qrow is _awesome_.

Weiss shoots Yang a final dirty look before striding for the door. “Do you two… squatters at least have any idea of my sister’s current whereabouts?”

“We’ll do you one better!” The blonde catches up in a handful of long strides, throwing an arm around Ruby. Her other hand is neatly dodged by Blake, who shares an amused eyeroll with the younger girl. “You two just found yourself a guide.”

“Ahem.”

“And trainee,” Yang adds.

Weiss’s features freeze, only her flaring nostrils betraying her internal horror. “Unnecessary,” she tries. “Simple directions will suffice.”

“What are your rates?” Her companion seems less opposed, the cat-eared girl prowling closer to examine the sisters. “What are your qualifications?”

“We get paid in adventure! Plus shares of profit and three square meals a day,” Yang lists. “As for qualifications…”

Ruby realizes what her sister is going to do just in time to tackle her. All four limbs twine around Yang; barely hampering the larger woman, but distracting her enough to derail the budding transformation.

“No dragon-ing in the bedroom!” the werewolf shouts.

Blake, meanwhile, doesn’t look impressed. “Was shapeshifting your entire argument?”

“As if.” Yang bristles, hair starting to stand on end. “I’ve got six years’ experience in this neck of the kingdoms,” she boasts. “Six years of working and traveling and fighting all sorts of nasties. That’s three years more than Ruby, and I’m guessing… six years more than your Ice Queen?”

“Hey!”

“Working how?” demands the faunus, golden eyes studying the blonde’s face. “Mercenary work? Treasure hunting? Highway robbery?”

Ruby ducks away as her sister’s skin goes boiling hot. “I’m _no_ bandit,” grits Yang. “Couple years as a caravan guard, some freelance work. Since Rubes joined me, we’ve pretty much been full-time huntressing.”

“And you know where Winter is?” As Weiss joins the impromptu job interview, Ruby makes a quiet exit. Having seen her sister negotiate before, she knows that the question now isn't whether they’ll be hired, but how long she has to pack…

 

**MERRY MEN (Weiss)**

When Weiss and Blake finally depart Winter’s former prison, it is without the former’s sister, but with two new traveling companions. Ruby ranges ahead with the endless stamina of a teen wolf, while Yang slouches along on Blake’s other side, long legs covering ground at an infuriating pace. Weiss, the shortest of the three, must hurry to keep abreast of the others—though, she sourly notes, Yang has quite the advantage there as well.

She has to admit the huntresses are well-equipped. Unlike Weiss, their clothes are meant for travel, and a heavy rucksack hangs on each of their backs. Neither has a sword, but Yang has strapped on a pair of plated gloves with the same golden gleam as her hair, and the most elaborate compound bow Weiss has ever seen hangs on Ruby’s shoulder.

In contrast, Weiss has been wearing the same dress for this entire journey, and had only gained her cloak after a week with Blake. Now, she lets her hood fall back and breathes deep, comforted by the knowledge that they are on their way to Winter. Her stomach turns cartwheels at the thought of her sister—who has apparently been free for _weeks_.

Of course she can understand why Winter would want to stay away. The oldest sibling had hated their birthright like Weiss and Whitley never had. She’d spent more time with the soldiers than the courtiers, fought father for every ounce of freedom until he deemed her a lost cause and sent her away.

Though Weiss understands, she’s certainly not happy. It comes as a not-so-mild shock when the princess realizes her first reaction to these thoughts is to talk to _Blake_.

 _When had that happened?_ It’s a relief to see the nagual embroiled in a debate with Yang, but the princess is still uneasy enough at this sudden spark of kinship to pull ahead, putting some distance between them. She trots to catch up with Ruby, following the younger woman’s crimson cape down the forest path.

The werewolf greets Weiss with a grin, her canines just a hair longer than average. “I’ve never been to Atlas,” the redhead confesses. “Is it really as advanced as people say?”

“Hardly. We were merely intelligent enough to establish a capable infrastructure, unlike our less civilized neighbors.” She winces at the chill in her own words.

“Uh-huh.” Ruby’s answering chirp holds no hint of offense. “Yang and I grew up on a little island called Patch,” she informs the princess. “Definitely no infrastructure there. Crescent was probably the most complicated thing in the whole place.”

Weiss frowns.

“My bow,” explains Ruby, catching her expression. The teenager reaches up to pat the weapon, fingers drifting lovingly over its upper limb. “Crescent Rose. It took _ages_ , but I built her all myself.”

“Well done,” manages Weiss. Her eyes flick to where Myrtenaster hangs at her waist. “Mine is an heirloom.”

“Cool! Can I—”

Before she can hear the rest of Ruby’s question, Weiss is swept—well, snatched—off her feet. She registers the white-sleeved arm around her waist, the air whipping at her face, then the arc of their swing carries her and her abductor into the trees to touch down on a broad branch.

“Ha- _hah_!” crows her captor. He’s tall, slim, and apparently human, dressed in clothes so loud she’s shocked they didn’t hear him coming. His long coat is even whiter than her dress used to be, somehow spotless in spite of their earthy surroundings. Patched trousers are tucked neatly into his boots, a splash of red visible on the lining of his coat and the feather in his triangular cap. A curl of orange hair spills out from beneath the hat, covering the man’s right eye.

Weiss draws her sword. “What are you _doing_?” she demands.

“Easy there, your Schnee-ness.” He backs away, more than a little mockery in his tone. In one hand is a polished black staff, the upper end curving into a hook. “You’ve been rescued!”

A roar heralds Yang’s arrival, smoke rising from the mercenary’s frame as she glares up at them. “HEY!” she shouts, shrugging off her pack and raising her fists. “That’s our princess! Get your own!”

Before this puffed-up man can do more than sneer, Weiss twitches her rapier and skewers his ascot. “I don’t know who you think you are—”

“Oh, _how_ forgetful of me.” He skips back and twirls his staff, batting Myrtenaster aside. “Allow me to introduce myself.” His hands spread wide, the dark wood of his staff pointing to the road below.

Weiss waits. Below, Yang turns, snorts, and flexes her knees.

“Oy!” The orange-haired man shakes his cane. “What do I pay you for?”

At his shout, the roadside bushes step forward and fan out. One by one, clusters of leaves drop to reveal a quartet of men and women.

“Behold! Roman Hood and his Merry Men!”

“You don’t have a hood,” heckles Yang.

“And half of your ‘Merry Men’ are women,” Weiss feels bound to point out. “Additionally, that one, the one with the crossbow, looks like a…” She trails off to scrub her eyes with her free hand. “Bear?”

“That’s our minstrel,” says Roman Hood, waving a dismissive hand. True enough, she sees some kind of instrument slung on the animal’s back. “The others are Little Xiong and the Malachite Twins.”

The former is a man—who, despite the name, is in no sense _little_ —clad in black; while the twins are svelte young women in matching combat gear, one in red, the other in white. They are, on the whole, the most conspicuous bunch of thieves she’s ever seen.

“Whadda we do?” Roman calls.

“We steal from the rich!” growls Xiong.

A pause.

“And…” Weiss prompts.

One of the twins scratches her head. “And… also the less rich?”

“See?” Yang stage-whispers. “ _These_ are bandits.”

With barely a whisper, Blake hits the leader from behind, bowling him over in a blur of black and white. The panther’s fangs snap shut inches from Roman’s nose, but even as he yelps, the outlaw is twisting to club her with the butt of his staff. A small explosion erupts as the wood strikes Blake’s side, blasting her out of the tree like a furry firework.

“Animals!” he scoffs, flicking bark off his clothes. Weiss readies a glyph as he climbs to his feet, feather bobbing as he surveys the growing brawl below. “It’s a good thing I brought friends, huh?”

The princess follows his gaze. Blake, element of surprise lost, has engaged the black bear, swatting his crossbow away with one clawed paw. As they start to grapple, Yang hits one twin with a haymaker, the crimson-clad bandit sent flying with a shower of leaves.

“Where—” Weiss cuts herself off before she can give anything away. “Where did you come from?” she asks Roman, setting her jaw. “Who are you working for?”

He leans on his staff, one finger scratching his nose. “Haven't you heard, Ice Princess? Your father wants you home.”

“I’ve seen the posters.” She draws herself up, fingers flexing around her sword. “But my desire to return is… lacking.”

“Ehh.” The man shrugs. “That seems like a _you_ problem.”

“You think to take me in by force?”

Roman matches her stance, staff held crosswise in both hands. “Oh, for what King Schnee is offering, I think I can try!”

When he tries to advance, a glyph roots his feet in place mid-lunge. As the surprised “Whoah!” tears from his lips, Weiss stabs out with her rapier, aiming for one thigh—only for the blade to meet his cane instead. An instant later, the other end of Roman’s staff loops toward her temple, forcing the white-haired girl to skip back.

Though still rooted in place, Roman deftly turns his swipe into a jab, the stick rapping her between the eyes with a burst of sparks. _He has reach_ , she notes as she stumbles, only losing her focus when one foot nearly slips off their branch.

Freed from her magic, Roman advances. He keeps his guard up this time, an assessing gleam in his emerald eye. “You’ve got spunk, princess. But you’re not getting out of this that easy. You’re my ticket into King Schnee’s good graces, girlie.” His weapon rises, the butt starting to glow. “And he has something I need.”

His next thrust is knocked off-course by the red-feathered arrow that slams into his staff. As Weiss pulls herself back to relatively stable ground, Roman glares in every direction, but fails to spot the archer.

“Oh, that’s fighting _dirty_. Well done!” With a chuckle, energy bursts from his cane, blasting the embedded arrow to bits.

After a quick breath, the princess resumes her assault, firing a volley of stinging missiles from another glyph. They pelt her assailant’s head and shoulders, another arrow embedding itself in his staff as he inches backward. This time, when he attempts to blow the bolt loose, it merely elicits a soft _fizz_ ing from the cardboard tube tied just below the head. _Fire dust_ , Weiss theorizes, then remembers to shut her eyes.

The unexpected explosion sends Roman tumbling back, cane almost flying from his hands. He’s left blinking by the flash, giving his opponent a few seconds to check on her team.

Below, Yang is hitting one twin with the other, while Blake is a black blur around the one called Little Xiong. The robber’s club hits nothing but air as she inflicts the death of a thousand claws, sending him crashing to his knees with a final swipe. The bear-minstrel is flat on his back a few feet away, gurgling pitifully through his accordion.

“You think I can get my deposit back?” Weiss whirls back to Roman, expecting an attack, only to see him hop to a neighboring tree. “These guys are _not_ performing as advertised.” Not waiting for a reply, he dives through a screen of leaves as one of Ruby’s arrows zips overhead.

Blood still boiling at the mention of her father, Weiss gives chase, following the bandit through the trees. He keeps to cover, but the white of his coat is easy to spot… until she squeezes between two thorny shrubs and finds nothing but a circle of scorched earth.

 _Lost him._ Fuming, the princess hurries back to her party. When she arrives, Weiss finds Yang and Blake comparing techniques over a quartet of senseless robbers, and Ruby dangling by her knees from a nearby branch.

“Thank you,” she tells the latter, stiff but sincere. “I had my doubts, but it seems your presence is indeed beneficial.”

“We pass!” enthuses the younger girl while her sister rolls her eyes.

“Great, thanks,” Yang adds. “We’re not as useless as the princess thought. My life is now complete.”

Blake rises back into her faunus shape as they resume their walk. “I’d take the compliment,” the werecat drawls. “That’s more than she’s ever given me.”

 

**TRANSFORMATION (Blake)**

Weiss may have been satisfied by their new partners’ combat prowess, but Blake only awards them her silent approval after seeing how they can _cook_.

When it had been just her and the princess, the skin-changer had been in charge of the provisions. Partially because of her previous experience, but mostly because if Weiss had been left to acquire food, they would have starved.

Now they have Ruby and Yang. Though the sisters had named meals as one of their fees, they seem perfectly happy to share their own expertise at both gathering and preparing sustenance. While Blake and Weiss made camp, both of their guides had set off into the darkening woods. Now, two hours later, the quartet feasts on two fat birds hunted by Yang, stuffed with foraged fodder sniffed out by Ruby.

Their Patch-style cookery is heavily spiced—more like the cooking of Blake’s mother’s people than the bland fare favored in Atlas—and proves to be both delicious and entertaining to all except Weiss, for whom it is neither.

As their resident Schnee stops shrieking about her burning tongue, Blake decides to try for conversation.

“Why the names?”

“She took Mom’s name, Rose. I took Xiao Long, Dad’s.” Ruby is preoccupied pouring sugar onto Weiss’s tongue, so it’s Yang who answers. “Plus,” the dragon adds with a wink, “this way Rubes won't have to worry about living in my shadow!”

Across the fire, her sister makes a rude noise.

“I assumed it would be something of that sort.” For the most part recovered, Weiss glares at both sisters. “Huntresses tend to have… theatrical aliases.”

Ruby snorts. “All right, _Weiss Schnee_.”

“It’s a historic name!” insists the princess. “It has crowned a kingdom for centuries!"

“Oh, so us peasants can't have kickass names?”

“Don’t twist my words!”

As Weiss and Yang exchange barbs, Ruby skips back around the fire to plop down next to Blake. “You're awfully quiet,” she probes.

“Have you _met_ Blake?” calls Yang.

The werecat ignores her. “Names are names,” she tells Ruby, hitching one shoulder. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

“Because yours is even cooler than Yang’s!” laughs the younger girl.

“Blasphemy!” her sister shouts.

Ruby opens her mouth as if to retort, but stops short, head falling back. “Gibbous,” she hums.

Blake follows her gaze to the now-inky sky. The sun is gone, the stars shining overhead. As is the moon. The pale orb looks almost whole, its shattered side out of view save for one jagged edge.

“Uh oh.” As Ruby mutters, Blake feels the draft of her departure, spies the end of her cloak as it disappears around a boulder. “Already?”

The younger girl’s words trail off into a gasp, her breath stuttering audibly. Yang clicks her tongue, Weiss glances away, and Blake does her best to close her ears until Ruby reappears, now on four legs and decidedly hairier.

As a wolf the size of a small pony gambols around, then out of their clearing, Blake feels her own leg start to shake. The nagual glances back to where their companions are setting up the tents, and finds Yang staring back, one eyebrow cocked.

“How do werecats feel about the moon?” the blonde wonders. “It usually makes Ruby feel that shapeshiftin’ urge, but I’m more solar-powered myself.”

Blake _does_ tend to feel more alive at night, but she doesn’t respond to the question, merely pointing after Ruby with her chin. “How well does she know the shape?” _Well enough to wander off alone, clearly._ “Is she experienced enough to change at will?”

“Dad taught her the basics. Why don’t you see for yourself?” challenges the dragon. “Me and Ice Queen will be fine on our own.”

Weiss looks up from her sword, mild alarm in her eyes. “Will we?”

“Sure will,” Yang assures her, flexing both arms. “I’m the scariest thing in these woods.”

“Not _quite_ what I meant…”

Blake feels her tunic and leggings melt into dark fur as she leaves her bickering allies behind, Ruby’s trail clear before her senses. Less than a minute later, the werewolf herself returns, bounding forth to bounce off Blake’s side.

The wolf noses along her flank before darting ahead, tail waving. Silver eyes meet Blake’s gold, mischievous and full of life, and then Ruby is off, a red-brown blur streaking through the forest.

When they skid to a halt at the edge of the wood, both are panting. Blake stretches with an arch of her spine, then shakes herself and scales a nearby tree. She breathes deeps as she extends along a limb, tail swishing from side to side. _Haven’t run that hard for months_ , muses the panther. _Yang was being modest; Ruby’s no amateur._

Scrabbling rises from below as her wolfish companion scratches at the trunk. Ruby’s irritated snarls fade to squeaks as she changes form, and after a few more grunt-filled moments, a hooded head pokes up onto her level.

“You're _fast_ ,” the girl puff, cheeks flushed. “Now scooch over.”

Blake does, slipping back to humanoid shape so they can both get comfortable. She’d been expecting more chatter, but Ruby at night is quieter, less… bouncy. The pair perches in easy silence for several minutes before the younger woman speaks up, hood falling back as she turns.

“I thought you were just a faunus at first.” Ruby pauses, lips stuttering. “I mean, not _just_ a faunus. Only a faunus? No, that’s not better—”

“It’s fine.” Blake is careful to aim her smile away from her companion.

The younger woman hums happily. “Cool.”

After another moment, the nagual clears her throat. “Were you going somewhere with that?”

The other girl keeps silent for another long moment. “Not really,” she says at last. “Unless…” A grin grows on her lips. “Are there any super-secret skin-changer tips you could give me?”

“From what I’ve seen, nothing you don’t already know.” The nagual must admit some surprise at the fact. “I had wondered if you’d learned to shift your clothes, but it looks like you have that covered.”

Ruby giggles. “Sorry,” she explains an instant later. “Thanks to Yang, I hear puns everywhere.” As the werecat replays her words, her companion goes on. “And I haven't _really_ mastered clothes.”

At Blake’s questioning frown, the huntress-in-training sticks a foot out from under her cloak. It’s bare, the pale skin of Ruby’s ankle almost glowing in the moonlight.

“The cape?” she guesses after another once-over. She’s heard of such enchanted clothing, but had never needed it herself.

The other girl nods. “Yang doesn’t really know how to shift clothing either,” whispers the teenager. “She gets away with it by making her armor out of shed dragon skin, but I think that’s cheating.” A pause. “And _icky_.”

Blake hides another smile with a thoughtful stroke of her chin. “It won't be easy,” she warns. Beside her, Ruby starts to bounce, sensing her inevitable agreement. “But… maybe I can teach you a thing or two.”

 

**FRIENDS (Weiss)**

“Are they still behind us?”

“I don’t—” Yang looks over her shoulder. “Yes! Run faster! _Run faster_!”

Weiss holds her hood up with one hand, the tall grass whipping at her leggings. As the member of their band with the shortest legs—and, as has become only too conspicuous, the only full-on human—she has to work harder just to keep pace.

“I can't believe you!” she cries, huffing with fury as much as exertion.

Far behind them, but not far enough, a crowd of torch-, pitchfork-, and prejudice-wielding villagers storm through the fields in pursuit.

“Aw,” groans Ruby. “We weren’t _that_ obvious, were we?”

“Apart from when you inhaled an entire tableful of baked goods,” the princess growls.

Her younger companion shows no signs of exertion, her wolfish stamina not even close to flagging. “How was I supposed to know they were reserved for the harvest festival?”

“They _were_ labeled,” is Blake’s input. Her upper ears pin back as Weiss redirects her glare.

“Don’t you start! Purse-snatching in broad daylight? And I thought you were the sensible one.”

Not a hint of remorse enters the nagual’s expression. “The lady called Ruby a—” Her voice drops to a sullen grumble. “She had plenty to spare. Not like I was going to keep it.”

“And _you_ —” The princess whirls on Yang, who just grins.

“Oh, come off it, Ice Queen! It’s not my fault they build things so flammable here.”

Weiss feels her eye twitch. Behind them, she knows, a growing column of smoke is rising into the cloudless sky.

“Besides,” continues the dragon, “Even odds are they’re after you, Miss Six-Million-Lien-Woman.”

“The bounty’s gone up,” Blake notes.

“Irrelevant!” sputters the princess. Gods of Light and Darkness, she _despises_ these people. “Just… just run faster!”

 

**FAUNUS HUNTERS PART I (Yang)**

The wreckage of the Beacon Inn is still smoldering when they arrive.

Ruby gasps. Weiss goes even paler than normal. Blake checks around every corner, behind every tree, and beneath every stone, but there’s no sign of _anyone_. Alive or dead.

Which, Yang thinks, might be a good thing. Her uncle’s tavern is sort of in the middle of nowhere, and she knows that some days its visitors can be counted on one hand. _Maybe it was a slow day_ , she hopes for a split second before thinking of the bartenders, the waitstaff, and—oh yeah— _Weiss’s sister_.

All Winter had told them before she’d left was that she needed intelligence on Atlas. So, naturally, Yang and Ruby had pointed her towards the best spy they knew. How were they to know that Uncle Qrow's house would soon be demolished?

“By _looking at him_!” Weiss shrieks when Yang points this out. “I knew him for two hours, and could already tell he attracts trouble.”

“Hey,” objects Ruby. Not very loudly, though. She knows as well as Yang that the princess… isn't exactly wrong.

It’s probably best to change the subject. Yang thinks for a moment.

“Was it Atlas?” she muses, kicking a stray board. “Grimm?”

“I don’t think so.” Blake lopes into view around a pile of rubble, completing her third sweep of the wreckage. “There’s a smell to either of them. Ruby?”

“Atlas units smell like iron, dust, and machine oil. Grimm smell like… sweaty despair?”

“Close enough.” The nagual nods, and Yang feels a spike of pride. These quizzes are becoming a familiar exchange. Scent tests. Hearing tests. Low-light sight tests. It’s almost enough to give the dragon some major sense envy.

All she has is heat vision—and not the awesome, incinerate-with-a-look-alone kind either. Seeing in shades of temperature does come in handy, though, and Yang makes use of it now, blinking hard to refresh her eyes.

When they open, her irises are as red as the cooling embers. A glance at her teammates tells her that Weiss’s frostiness is purely metaphorical, the princess colored the same lukewarm red-orange as any other human. She actually glows hotter than Blake’s four-legged form, while Ruby runs warmer than either. Yang knows that if she were to look at herself, the hotness would be almost literally blinding.

Not to mention her temperature.

Unfortunately, the still-warm husk of Qrow’s inn baffles her heat-sense. The wreckage is a mess of colored blobs, nothing hot or cool enough to stand out or give any sort of clue.

“Besides, Atlas forces _couldn’t_ have done this.” Yang blinks her eyes back to lilac as Weiss speaks up. “General Ironwood would never authorize a strike on a civilian target!”

“But he’s not the king,” Ruby points out. The princess narrows her eyes, but Yang’s sister is already raising Crescent Rose like a shield. “If your dad thought Winter was here…”

“Oh, hey!” The blonde perks up as a thought occurs. “Maybe she didn’t even make it this far!”

Oddly, this comforts no one. Blake shifts back to two legs just to roll her eyes.

“I mean,” Yang corrects herself once Weiss has stopped kicking dust at her boots, “do we know Winter _was_ here? Even if she found Uncle Qrow, maybe they snuck off somewhere quiet to—”

“How _dare_ you!”

“—plan a route back into Atlas,” Yang finishes, grinning.

Blake’s mouth curves up as she speaks. “Actually, when we passed through the first time, Qrow said Weiss reminded him of someone,” she recalls, looking to her white-haired companion. “Remember? You called her a—”

“ _I remember_ ,” Weiss grinds out. Apparently having had enough of these musings, she turns on one heel and goes to watch the bar smolder.

Ruby bobs her head. “Maybe Winter came and went before you first visited.” Yang’s sister darts a glance at their royal teammate, whose scowl threatens to reignite the ruined building. “Once we find Uncle Qrow, I bet he’ll know where she is.” With a determined nod, she darts over to the smoking foundation, nose turning wolfish.

“I can't smell him,” she admits on her return, then sneezes. “Even past the smoke…” Ruby takes another whiff. “There’s a few weird scents, but not our uncle’s. What about you, Blake?”

“I—I’m not sure.”

Both sisters turn toward the nagual. “You’re always sure!” claims Ruby. “You’re the experienced one, remember?”

Even her jab doesn’t shift the uneasy twist on Blake’s lips. “There’s something—”

“Blake!” The relieved shout draws all eyes to the tree line, but Yang can't make out the speaker. “You’re back!”

“Ilia?” Blake responds, reassuring the blonde. “What are you doing here?”

Now Yang sees the dark shape that descends from a nearby trunk. Clad in tight, black clothing, and with skin as green as the leaves that flutter down with her, the stranger stays at a distance, but raises a hand in greeting. It’s like she’s afraid to leave the forest.

“After your visit, I thought I’d… get out more,” Ilia explains, skin fading to brown as she glances between Ruby and Yang. Weiss has yet to return from her sulk. “More new friends?”

As Ruby waves, Yang sizes up the new arrival. Lithe and nimble, she’s shorter than Blake, taller than Weiss, and has some kind of metal whip hanging on her hip.

“Do you know what happened here?” asks the dragon.

Ilia shakes her head, whole body tinting blue. “Where did you lose the Schnee?” she questions in turn. “Did she run back home to daddy, or you just have enough of her arrogance?” The jungle spirit chuckles, but there’s real venom in her tone.

Blake blinks. “No…” she begins just as Weiss marches back into view.

Ilia goes stiff.

“Frog girl,” greets the princess, surprised but not hostile. _Must not’ve heard_. “When did you arrive?”

“Just now. I’m sorry.” Ilia goes paler with every word, bleaching to a sickly gray.

“It’s… all right?” As Weiss speaks, Yang switches to her dragon’s eyes. _I wonder if that color changing trick—_

“No,” murmurs Ilia. “I’m _sorry_.”

Something catches Yang’s eye, a brief flash of heat past the newcomer’s shoulder. Then another, and a third.

“Guys.” She keeps her voice low, calm. “She’s not alone.”

Things happen much faster after that. A dozen faunus emerge from the trees, faces a mystery behind their Grimm-patterned masks. Ilia flips back onto a branch, knuckles white around her weapon. Weiss draws her sword and steps closer to Ruby, Yang moving to flank Blake…

Who is the only one standing still. The feline ears are rigid atop her head, amber eyes gone wide and dark.

“There you are,” rasps the closest of their ambushers. A pair of horns stand out among his jagged red locks, and his mask only covers his eyes, baring a thin, sneering mouth. A sword nearly as long as he is tall weighs on his belt, its sheath a match for his pitch-black garb.

“ _No_.” Blake’s response is whispered, barely audible. “ _Adam_?”

He takes another step forward, smile widening.

“It’s been too long, my darling.”

 

**INTERLUDE- EATING ALONE (Winter)**

Winter is cold.

 _I never used to feel the chill_ , the woman reflects, _not even in the Capital’s highest reaches_. Her years in that infernal tower have changed her. Now every gust of the mountain air sends shivers through her frame. Fog leaks from her lips with each breath, and her feet are starting to numb in her boots. At least the light snowfall gives her an excuse to wear a hood.

Her cloak shields most of the former princess from sight, but she still doesn’t dare carry her sabre openly. It would attract attention, and it only takes an instant for her to summon the blade in any case. She’d acquired a chainmail vest from a… friend of a friend, but once she’s through the mountains and in Mistral, the first thing Winter plans to do is buy some proper armor. Her glyphs can only do so much to protect her.

She has some lien left, but before that’s gone, she needs to find a source of income. There’s always work for warriors or mages on the plains of Anima, and Winter happens to be both. While her experience in the field is minimal, she’s sure of her abilities, having practiced with sabre and glyph since she was a child.

In any case, she finds it hard to believe she could be any more useless than the two loudmouthed huntsmen employed by this caravan.

“—and then, and then,” one of the guards guffaws from across the fire, “he runs up ‘n smacks it right in the nose!”

His companion shoves an elbow into his ribs. “Aw, Dudley, not this story again.”

“Right on the nose! A full-grown sphinx!” Dudley repeats, undeterred. “So, then it just looks at him, growls, and swats him right off the bridge!”

Winter isn't sure what these stories are meant to prove. Surely the hired guards should at least _present_ themselves as competent.

“What happened next?”

At least their tales seem to entertain some of the other passengers. A small audience of children has gathered around the huntsmen, while the adults sit in twos and threes around the fire. Winter, naturally, keeps to herself, chewing another spoonful of rubbery stew.

The provided food is… decent. Definitely superior to the Atlesian military rations that take up half her wagon space. The compact meals had been her main food source in the tower, and though they’re as appetizing as salted mud, she can't deny their convenience. If there’s a silver lining, it’s that even this soup—made from _actual_ _scraps_ —seems as fine as any royal banquet.  

“I’ll tell you what happened next.” Dudley’s boasting rises in volume. “I hauled him out, dried him off, and then we went back and kicked both of the monster’s asses!”

“Ass _es_?” groans his partner, Dee. “Dummy, I told you a million times: Two heads does _not_ mean two asses.”

The other man leans on his spear. “Look, all I’m saying is, the lion half and the snake half both have to end somewhere.”

“The lion half ends _at_ the snake half! If anything, both asses are in the same place.”

“Ah-hah!” Dudley jabs a triumphant finger. “See? ‘Both asses’, you said it yourself!”

“A shared ass only counts as one, you—”

Winter shuts out the remainder of their inane debate, spoon moving mechanically between mouth and bowl. _I must make sure to find more competent associates than these two_ , she resolves. _Even Weiss could—_

She squashes that thought before it can progress any further.

…

Later, as the fire dwindles and the crowd disperses back to their wagons, Winter notices one of the men-at-arms drifting her way. Dee, she’s almost certain. The one she’s deemed marginally less of an idiot.

“Hello there,” he greets, hefting the spiked club over his shoulder. “Why don’t I walk you back to your cart? It can be dangerous up here in the mountains.” His voice drops, brow furrowing dramatically. “Especially at night.”

She doesn’t slow her pace. “I’m not defenseless.”

“Sure you aren’t.” Dee’s condescending smile belies his words. “But even a licensed huntsman like me can have trouble with some of these beasties.”

“Yes,” sniffs Winter. “I heard.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, if you want some combat advice, my wagon’s always open. Maybe we can train together. Do you have something fight with? You could always—”

“Polish your club?” Winter predicts, voice sweetening. “I’m afraid my parents raised me not to handle others’ weapons.”

“Fair enough. Hah-ha— _eep_!”

The man’s nervous laughter spikes into a squeal as someone appears on his other side. Their tattered black cloak is pulled almost as close as Winter’s, giving them a certain ominous air, and a peaked hood shadows their face.

“ _I’ll_ give _you_ some advice,” growls the dark figure. “Scram.”

Dee fumbles his weapon. “Excuse me?”

“Why don’t you go do your job, kid,” the stranger retorts. “I thought this caravan was paying huntsmen, not jumped-up valets.”

The guard swells, fit to burst with indignant bluster, but never gets the chance.

“Spotted some sloppy ropework on one of the hitches,” the hooded man continues. “I’d check those, unless you want half the wagon train rolling back to Atlas.”

“ _Dudley_.” The news redirects Dee’s anger. “I’ve told him a _million_ times…”

As the man-at-arms jogs back up the line of carts, Winter rolls her eyes. “I don’t need your protection either,” she whispers. “Or your company. What are you doing here, Qrow?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Ice Queen.” A grin flashes from within the spy’s hood. “That was strictly selfish. Can't stand half-trained mooks like those two.”

A soft snort clouds the air between them. “Of course it was. Now answer the question, I have an early start tomorrow.”

“Why did you decide to flee Atlas?” Qrow asks instead.

Even her fiercest glare can't make him go on, so Winter grits her teeth and replies. “There was nothing for me there. Father would never allow me to inherit, nor do I have any desire to do so. You _know_ this.”

“Right.” The man scratches an armpit. “Must’ve forgot. And the rest of your family?”

She’d preferred when she was the one asking the questions. “I’m sure W—my brother and sister will persevere. They’ve been fine without me for years, after all.” The cold air fills her lungs as she takes a slow breath. “I saw them before I left.”

Qrow lets out a bland hum. “Oh, did you?” They reach her wagon and come to a stop, standing close enough for Winter to practically taste the alcohol on his breath.

“From afar,” she admits. “And I have a source in the Capital. Once I have established a base of operations in Mistral, he has promised to send regular updates. Maybe I can return after…” She trails off, remembering herself before she can say anything too incriminating. “After.”

“Good plan, good plan.” The huntsman bobs his head. “I’m sure Jimmy won’t let you down. But… there’s only so much even a general can do when your dad’s on the warpath.”

 _Weiss. Whitley_. The mountain chill has nothing on the ice that fills Winter’s veins. She’d always told herself that leaving would draw Father’s attention outward, away from her siblings, but what if the opposite has occurred? _Did I make the wrong choice?_ She swallows thickly.

“Tell me what has happened.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Adam isn't the only skeleton in the group's closets. As if he wasn't enough...


	5. Two Steps Forward, Two Steps Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When disaster strikes, the party is forced to split up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild warning: There is some more graphic violence starting this chapter, but nothing really gory, I hope. Also, Adam.

**FAUNUS HUNTERS PART II (Ruby)**

“Ruby, get behind me!”

“Aw, Weiss, you do care!” Ruby fires another arrow from Crescent Rose, this one loaded with earth dust. Where it strikes the ground, a fissure yawns, swallowing three of the onrushing faunus up to their belts. Unfortunately, two others make it past, one gliding over the obstacle on bat wings while his companion simply jumps.

“I _don’t_ ,” Ruby’s teammate denies, defensive to the last. “I’m just the one with the sword.”

There’s time to draw and shoot two more bolts from her hip quiver—neither of which hits their target—before their assailants arrive. The winged man smacks face-first into the glyph that appears before him, but the woman charging alongside manages to dodge low and come up swinging with a short sword.

Though she parries the blade, Weiss misses her opponent’s other hand as it rises, palm out. The woman’s bare arm is darker than the rest of her, patterned with gray veins from wrist to fingertips. Ruby hasn’t seen this faunus trait before, but judging from the sneer on their enemy’s lips, it won't be fun.

“Look out!” She darts forward, cloak flapping as she throws herself in front of the princess. The glob of webbing hits her cape with a wet _slap_ , splattering across the cloth and almost engulfing Ruby’s arms before she sheds the garment.

At this range, she doesn’t bother to draw the arrow nocked in Crescent Rose. Instead, the huntress-in-training grasps her bow with both hands and presses the catch on its upper limb.

Both Weiss and their assailant gape at the curved blade that unfolds from Crescent Rose, turning it into a short but deadly scythe.

“What?” the spider faunus yelps, dancing back to avoid Ruby’s swing… Which puts her at the perfect distance for the young werewolf to fire her loaded arrow, hitting the masked woman with enough lightning dust to stun a bull minotaur.

Meanwhile, Weiss has kept the flying faunus at bay with an icy barrage from her magic circles. As soon as Ruby’s opponent stops twitching, she moves to help the princess, drawing her bow as she turns.

The addition of her arrows drives their airborne enemy to greater heights—heights from which he is understandably reluctant to descend. As he swoops in wary circles, Weiss keeps her gaze up while Ruby risks a glance toward her sister.

Yang and Blake are taking on the lion's share of their attackers. While Ruby looks on, the blonde dragonhandles her opponents, not even breaking a sweat as she sends two flying back into the trees with straight punches. Four more move in from all sides while her partner faces the last, a tall, crimson-haired bull faunus. Between brief, lightning-quick clashes, he and Blake dance in terse circles, lips moving as they trade whispers with the force of blows.

And then he moves, arm blurring to his waist. In the next instant, an oversized blade the same shade as his hair whips through the air where Blake had stood. In response, she leaps not for his throat, but away, keeping her distance. Her ears are flat, her back bowed. She looks… _scared_.

Ruby’s sister kicks the last of her goons away with a roar, hair starting to smoke. “Pick on someone your own size!” she challenges, drawing back a fist.

“No!” Blake shouts, too late. “He’s—”

The tall faunus doesn’t even try to dodge. Yang’s punch hits him straight in the mask, sending it flying off his brow.

As his head snaps back, the horned man swells with rage—and keeps swelling, his form growing taller, broader. Horns widen and curl forward as his face does much the same, elongating into a bovine snout. His shirt bursts to shreds while his sword belt, though stretched, remains intact—as, thankfully, do his pants. The shock of red hair grows down his neck and shoulders, and his boots split around hooves the size of saucepans.

Ruby hears Weiss gasp as she sees the minotaur’s face. One eye shines brilliant, intense blue, but the other is a milky gray, pulled into a permanent glower by the brand across his brow.

“The Schnee family crest?” sputters the princess. Disgust and shock play across a face even paler than usual, but her horror is short-lived. Distraction soon arrives in the form of their flying foe, his approach forcing the princess to refocus with a _tch_.

As fire erupts from Weiss’s sigils, Ruby’s gaze is drawn back across the clearing by renewed sounds of combat. The minotaur’s massive sword is now matched by his towering frame, but he’s more agile than his bulk would suggest, fast enough to match even Blake.

Now Ruby is _really_ wishing she’d held on to that shock arrow.

Both Blake and Yang are kept at bay by the threat of his scarlet blade until the latter plants her feet, steam billowing from her pores. “You asked for it!” the blonde announces, purple eyes deepening to red.

But before the transformation is through, the minotaur lowers his head and charges straight into the growing cloud, one hand dropping to his belt. He thunders out the other side an instant later, a chilling grin on his lips.

“Yang!” Ruby shouts, raising her bow. Behind him, her sister is a dark silhouette in the steam, slumped in a way Ruby’s never seen.

When the haze clears, Yang’s right arm is encased in black metal. A wicked-looking shackle covers her limb all the way to the elbow, runes glowing on its surface. She’s still human-looking, which means it must have cut off her ability to change shape before she could finish. Ruby winces at the notion.

“We were going to use this on the Schnee.” The minotaur’s voice grates on her ears like the grind of a whetstone. “Consider yourself honored.” He thrusts forward an amulet of that same dark metal, and the shackle hums, blazing violet. Yang pitches to one side as the manacle is dragged downward, not stopping until it slams to the ground.

 _Gravity dust._ But if they can get the trigger out of his hands… She draws and fires an arrow at the same time that Blake darts forward, dropping into panther form. The missile—loaded with powdered fire dust—and the great cat strike in the same instant, but to Ruby’s shock and dismay, their target doesn’t so much as stagger. Ignoring the fireball that blooms at his shoulder, one hoof moves into a brutal kick that sends the werecat tumbling across the dirt.

“What was that?” he scoffs. “You’ve gotten _soft_ , my love.” As the panther wobbles to all fours, he holds up his amulet. “Ah-ah-ah. Stay down, Blake. Let’s see what this thing can really do.” His good eye swivels toward the hobbled dragon. “How about…”

Yang’s cuff glows red, and she laughs in his face. “Fire? Against _me_?” The blonde has struggled to her knees, but her arm is still pinned to the earth, and her mocking grin is strained. “What is this, amateur hou—aa-g-g-g-g-g.”

Ruby throws out a helpless hand as lightning crackles across her sister’s frame. “Stop!” she cries. “You don’t have to do this!”

“Adam,” Blake pleads at the same time. “Why? She has nothing to do with the White Fang’s mission. She’s not even _human_.”

“You know nothing about my goals.” says Adam. “Not since you left us. Since you left me.”

Another shake of his amulet makes Yang gasp, ice growing across her torso and up her neck. It stops just below her nose, and Ruby takes an impotent step closer, feeling her nails dig into her palms. _Any farther, and she could suffocate!_

“What are you doing with them?” the extremist demands. “Helping the enemy. Aiding a _Schnee_.” His scarred features twist with disbelief. “My love, what have you become?”

Blake cringes further with every word, looking uncharacteristically small.

“Stop!” Weiss strides past Ruby, her voice carrying out across the field. “You wanted me, correct? Leave them be and _I_ will go with you.”

Adam whirls toward them with a snort. “Oh, you’re coming with us, _Your Highness_. That was never a question.” His good eye seems oddly unfocused, unless… _He’s not looking at us_ , Ruby realizes with a start. _He’s looking at_ —

She turns and fires, forcing the bat faunus to veer off. Unfortunately, he’s not the only surprise. The largest of the White Fang goons she’d trapped in the earth has torn free, aided by his weapon of choice. Vaguely sword-shaped, the thing looks like a repurposed mining tool; dust powered, with several feet of buzzing chain scarring the ground as he drags it along.

As his comrade is driven back, the big faunus dashes forward, covering the last few feet with a surprising turn of speed. The butt of his weapon rises to strike Ruby’s temple before she can move, knocking her flat with embarrassing ease.

Before everything goes dark, she has time for one final thought.

 _When I wake up, I’ve_ got _to get my hands on that chainsaw-sword_.

 

**BLAKE’S SECRET (Weiss)**

Blake had been part of the _White Fang_?

 _How… inconvenient_. As she fumes, Weiss glares at nothing through the iron bars of their cage. Blake clearly isn't aligned with those extremists any longer, but the princess can't help but feel deceived.

As a child, the creatures— _agents_ , she corrects herself—of the White Fang had been her bogeymen. Adam’s band must be part of the group’s Atlas cell, an offshoot which had grown ever more militant throughout her youth. Father had often lectured her on the threat they posed, and he’d certainly never lacked for examples. Generals. Nobles. Family friends. One attack had penetrated to Castle Schneeballschlacht itself, almost costing Klein his life!

Oh, and there was the time Whitley had been kidnapped.

Weiss doesn’t let herself compare that timeline to what she knows about Blake. There must be _some_ connection, obviously, but— _We can discuss that later_ , she resolves. Now, they have larger, more immediate problems.

Beside her, Ruby is curled into her still-sticky cape, snoring lightly. Their cage sits to one side of the radicals’ small camp, with Yang anchored several yards away. The dust in the dragon’s shackle seems to make it impossibly heavy, forcing her to lie in an awkward sprawl. What’s more, she is still half-encased by ice, frozen over from mouth to sternum.

Blake has not been imprisoned, but Weiss does not envy her. Under threat to her companions, the skin-changer can do little but remain by their sides, curled up midway between the cage and Yang’s position.

Amitola, the traitor, is nowhere to be seen.

Their guards include many of the faunus from earlier, the ones with a score to settle should they try to escape. Not that Weiss has much hope on that front—this cage is restricting her glyphs.

That fact is particularly worrying. She’s encountered similar enchantments—Whitley’s shackles, the time-out room back in the royal palace—and while the spells involved are intricate, their main drawback is the lengthy preparation process. The White Fang have been planning this capture for quite some time.

So the princess can't get them out, and she doubts Ruby can either. Their cage’s key, like the charm that controls Yang’s restraints, is in Adam’s pocket—

 _Well, speak of the minotaur_. A frown darkens Weiss’s face as he strides into view, an old enemy by his side. With his glamoured mask back in place, Adam is back to appearing as a horned faunus, barely taller than his companion.

“We provided that cuff to use on our runaway princess,” gripes Roman Hood, not seeming to sense the daggers Weiss is glaring into his puffed-up chest. _How did he get ahead of us?_ “Not on any lummox of a dragon who happens to wander by! This is what I get for working with…” He glances around at his inhuman allies. “… revolutionaries.”

The outlaw’s henchmen may be absent, but he has lost none of his swagger. Adam could—and from the looks of it, very much wants to—tear through him like wet cardboard, but Roman gestures carelessly with his hands and staff, going so far as to pat the extremist leader on the back.

“Look,” the human says. “It’s simple. We leash the little Schnee, we can waltz right into her daddy’s house.” His cane twirls through the air before them. “Then, big fella, their precious Capital will be your personal china shop.”

Adam brushes past the outstretched staff to loom over Blake, who climbs to her feet with deliberate care. She’s been silent since they came to the camp, but her stance is far less cowed than before, more coiled spring than shrinking violet.

“Now can you see?” he asks her, voice even. While the minotaur is not afraid to show his rage, Weiss has noticed that he has yet to raise his voice at Blake. “I’ve taken your advice, my love. We’re not just stealing shipments or burning factories anymore. Now we start with the head!” One long finger jabs at Weiss. “Her head.”

Roman clears his throat.

“Her _father’s_ head,” growls Adam. “But your pet Schnee is no less guilty. How many of us had to die for that pretty white dress of hers?”

“It’s a combat skirt,” Weiss pipes up, largely in an attempt to draw some of his attention off Blake. She doubts he’ll give weight to anything that comes from her lips.

She’s proven right, the minotaur only shooting her a hateful glance before turning back.

“And where does it stop?” Blake speaks up at last. “You’ll burn half the kingdom before you’re satisfied!”

He straightens, lips curling into a smile. “ _Their_ half.”

“I—I won't let you.” Weiss shivers at the quake in Blake’s voice. “You’ve gotten worse, Adam. You wanted justice once, but not anymore. It doesn’t have to be us or them!”

It’s almost worse when the minotaur visibly relaxes, voice growing conversational. “I know how you feel, Blake. Oh, I’ve heard it all before, from my old superiors in the White Fang. There was a time I admired them, just like you _used to_ admire me.” His words abruptly go knife-sharp before smoothing out just as quickly.

“But then they grew weak,” he goes on, disdain entering his tone. “Passive, pathetic. The cowards ran and hid, abandoned us to tremble in their den.” Adam lets out a scoff. “Sound familiar?” His teeth flash, face thrust close to Blake’s. “But your parents never betrayed me like you did, my darling.”

Weiss stiffens. _Her parents, too?_ More fuel for their future conversation.

“What a disappointment our great leaders turned out to be.” The minotaur chuckles bitterly before resuming his tirade. “At least they never pretended to—”

“Leave her alone!” Ruby slams against the side of their cage, awake at last.

Adam whirls toward them, loosening his sword in its scabbard. “Quiet, whelp. This doesn’t concern you.”

“As if!” shouts the werewolf.

“There’s no need to keep _you_ alive,” threatens Adam. His blade leaps from its sheath with a whisper of steel. “You and that dragon of yours are nothing but… dead weight.”

Weiss clenches her teeth, fingers curling into Ruby’s cape. Yang strains against the enchanted cuff, her shout muffled by the ice over her mouth. Blake’s eyes widen for the briefest of seconds, and that’s all their captor needs.

Grinning, he glances between them before turning to his human companion. “Any objections, knave?”

Roman draws a cigar from his pocket, peels the tip with one thumbnail, and lights it with a flare of his cane. “Be my guest,” he says, sticking it between his teeth. “My people sure don’t have any use for ‘em.”

As Adam takes another step toward the cage, Blake lunges, a ripple running over her slender frame. She hits the minotaur in the brawny, beastly shape she’d been wearing when she and Weiss met, one clawed foot swiping the sword from his hand as they both topple to the dirt.

The princess presses against the bars, eyes locked on the grappling combatants. The sound of their struggle attracts more White Fang militants, but like the guards already present, they seem content to watch, forming a ring around their leader and the prisoners.

For a few frantic moments, Blake maintains her advantage, and Weiss feels a spark of hope swell in her breast. Then Adam’s grasping fingers close around the hilt of his sword, and that hope slips away.

Even shrouded by his glamour, Adam still possesses all the brute strength of a full-grown minotaur. A glancing blow from his free hand is enough to knock Blake away, giving him enough space to bring that wicked blade to bear.

Lips in a concerned line, Weiss watches as her companion is forced into a retreat. With the wall of warriors that encircles them, there’s not much room for her to move, robbing her of her biggest advantage. The cage holding Ruby and Weiss could provide some cover, but Blake refuses to come near them, instead drawing the minotaur as far away as possible.

“Why do you make me do this?” sighs Adam, stomping forward with a toss of his horns. The werecat slips under his outstretched arm, only to yowl as he lashes out with a knee. “Just _behave_. You can't beat me, Blake.”

She replies with a hiss that’s almost feral, her claws raking against his lower back. This tears a bellow from Adam’s throat, but he strikes even as he shouts, sword flashing as it reverses and stabs straight into Blake’s side.

“ _No_ ,” Weiss hears Ruby murmur. The princess herself is too tense to speak, her insides curled into knots. They both watch as their friend drags herself away, flipping from beast to panther to faunus as her wound continues to bleed.

Adam follows at a walk, sheathing his blade with a _snap_. “It’s all right, darling,” he says, back to that oily monotone. “I’ll still forgive you. Nothing you do to me will ever hurt as much as when you left.” He stops at her side, dropping to one knee. “Don’t you see? You can come _back_. Forget about this pointless quest; forget about the Schnee. I’ll take care of everything—”

Fire suddenly roars across his shoulders, turning his embroidered jacket to ash and searing off the fur beneath. Adam jerks upright, teeth locked in a silent grimace, and slowly turns.

“You,” he growls at Yang. “I’ll take care of you first.”

Steam rises off the blonde as her icy collar melts, smoke still trailing from between bared teeth. “You can _try_.”

He dashes left to dodge the flames that spray from her lips, sword trailing low at his side. Fire from Yang’s last breath is still licking at his back, causing his glamour to flicker and gifting them with unpleasant glimpses at the bald, burning, and ballistic bull-man beneath.

The dragon is slow to turn, thanks to the immense weight on her arm. Her arc of fire keeps Adam at bay for a few seconds, but then he outpaces the danger and moves in, sword rising.

“YANG!” Ruby’s paws tear at the bars, her silver eyes wide and bright. Weiss is right beside her, craning to see past the minotaur’s bulk as he reaches his prisoner. Her heart plummets when a familiar figure falls into view, golden hair streaming.

It’s a comfort that said locks are still attached to the rest of her body, Yang’s neck having surely been Adam’s aim. But the reality is little better. Instead of baring her throat, the dragon had somehow mustered the strength to drag up her gravity-bound arm for a grisly interception. The severed limb rolls away beneath Weiss’s gaze, shackle still clamped on its wrist.

“Uh oh.” Yang’s sister sits back, hands falling to her lap. A moment later, Weiss understands her sudden calm when the blonde snaps upright, back arching, eyes flashing red. Steam fills the clearing, denser and hotter than the last time she’d transformed, hot enough to scald the baffled minotaur.

“RROOOOOAAHHH!”

The screeching, twisting column of Yang in full dragon form explodes into the sky, throwing the White Fang audience into disarray. Her first move is to slam all her strength against their cage, shattering the prison and throwing its occupants to the ground. Her second is to do the same to Adam, battering him with a thick tail and sending him tumbling through his own troops.

“Run!” orders Blake. The nagual’s upper ears twitch frantically as she staggers upright, clutching her side and staring at the golden form thrashing through the air.

“HREEEEEAAAAH!”

It soon becomes obvious that Yang’s rampage is growing less purposeful and more berserk by the second. The faunus below are still panicking, but only because of an aspect of her gambit that Weiss doubts even Yang had considered: As everyone knows, dragons are hot-blooded. And since much—far _too_ much—of that blood is currently exiting Yang’s right bicep at great speed, the result is a hail of acidic droplets onto the camp below.

As amusing as it is to see the White Fang running and squealing like children in the rain, Weiss knows that this can't go on.

Unmasked, bleeding, and still slightly on fire, Adam glares across the burning encampment with mad eyes. Weiss takes a reflexive step back before remembering Myrtenaster. That arrogant spider-girl had taken it, and then…

 _Finally, a stroke of luck_. The White Fang operative is unconscious not far away, allowing the princess to retrieve her rapier before—

“Get Weiss out of here!” Blake is still shouting.

“But Yang…” cries Ruby. Her own bow has been found and returned to her back, though lacking any arrows. The werewolf’s hands open and close, helpless as she observes her sister’s plight.

Above, the dragon lets out a final screech and folds in on herself, shrinking to human form in a puff of smoke. Blake catches Yang as she plummets, a knot of scaly skin now capping her right arm a few inches below the shoulder.

“We’ll be right behind you,” the werecat calls, but the White Fang are stung, not stopped. A few of the braver grunts are edging forward while Adam looks on, and the minotaur himself is gearing up for a charge. While Weiss and Ruby are nearly at the clearing’s edge, Blake is cradling Yang where the blonde had fallen, too close for comfort to the militants.

For a long moment, tension fills the air, sending a tingle down the princess’s spine. The flames consuming the camp gutter. The trees cease their rustling.

And then the sunlight turns red through the wings of a colossal dragon.

“ _What?_ ” Weiss hears her shriek echoed in a dozen other throats, her sword rising reflexively as the black-scaled creature reaches down with one massive paw. Its claws close around Yang, Blake, and several pounds of earth, clutching them in a cage of ivory talons. Wings large as a warship’s sails pump downward, buffeting the clearing as the dragon rises.

“RUN!” roars the werecat, voice already fading with distance.

Weiss grabs Ruby, and they run.

 

**MAKING CAMP (Blake)**

_I’m seeing double_ , Blake muses, her golden eyes fixed on the women before her. Senseless and far too still, Yang lies on a woven mat while their rescuer bends over her, inspecting the stump of the blonde’s right arm.

The strange woman is the spitting image of Blake’s teammate, the two only differentiable by their coloring and clothing. Where Yang is golden from head to toe, the other dragon has paler skin, hair as dark as Blake’s. A red robe covers her form, ending at mid-thigh above a pair of long boots. All her garb is made of a scaly material the werecat recognizes as shed dragon skin, as are the walls of the tent around them.

Yang’s armor has been peeled off, baring her battered figure to their host’s ministrations. The collection of gashes and bruises she’d acquired is healing fast, with the exception of her most prominent injury. But even her truncated arm is far better off than Blake had expected, the wound having sealed itself after the dragon’s frenzied transformation.

Blake heals fast as well, but the cut in her side still throbs beneath its dressing. It’s been hours since their disastrous encounter with Adam, but her trembling has only just started to ease. The nagual itches to move, to run, but she’s learned that once again, fleeing is not an option.

While Yang’s dark reflection had provided ointment and bandages—well, tossed ointment and bandages at the skin-changer’s head—she has largely ignored Blake, any dregs of concern reserved for the injured dragon. Yang’s newly acquired stump has been cleaned and painted with a foul-smelling paste, every motion taken with great care.

The sole shift in her attention had occurred when Blake had attempted to slip out of the tent.

“You're not going anywhere,” the woman had said, crimson eyes not leaving Yang’s limp form. “Not until she wakes up. Unless _you_ would care to explain how my daughter ended up at the mercy of the White Fang.”

Now, the cat’s ears on Blake’s head twitch with guilt. _Coward_ , she can't help but think. _Adam was right. You would have run_. _Again._

 _Coward_ , his voice echoes within her skull, and she jolts to her feet, abruptly claustrophobic. The tent is spacious but dim, lit only by candles and whatever light seeps in through the translucent sides.

“What did I tell you?” drawls Yang’s alleged mother.

“I need air.”

When Blake steps outside, blinking in the sudden light, someone puts a knife to her neck.

Still squinting, the nagual snaps out an elbow before throwing herself in the opposite direction. She lands with a gasp, pain spiking from the cut in her abdomen, but there’s no follow-up as she drags herself upright.

Her vision finally clears to the sight of a young woman who stares back with one arched brow. Chestnut hair is cropped short above her sun-darkened face, and a crescent-shaped blade hangs loose in one hand, its twin hooked to her belt. Sleeveless bandit leathers cover her wiry frame, revealing the shape of a hawk tattooed on her left shoulder.

“Gotcha,” she chuckles, ignoring Blake’s glower. “What’s it like in there? Raven still fussing over her spawn?”

 _Raven._ The nagual files the name away as she nods, eyes scanning the stranger. She may not look like anything special, but she’d been able to get the drop on Blake, after all.

“Hmph,” grunts the girl, then turns on her heel. “Come with me.”

The werecat doesn’t move.

“Someone here to see you,” sighs her escort. “Says you know her.”

 _Weiss?_ Is Blake’s first thought, but that doesn’t line up. They’d flown for hours, which could put them anywhere from Atlas to Mistral, much too far for Weiss and Ruby to travel even if they knew where to go.

Curiosity roused, she trails after the shorter woman, noting every detail of her surroundings. And the more she notices, the stranger it is.

The compound is surrounded by a wall of trunks, and most of the structures within are made of woven branches. None are so grand as Raven’s leathery tent, but they range in size, with leafy rooves and assorted bandit-y decorations. When they pass closer to one, Blake realizes with a start that they aren’t woven from sticks—they are _grown_.

Those trees that line the perimeter are growing quite close together, aren’t they? And so… evenly spaced.

As someone who is no stranger to the weirdness of the wilds, Blake is sort of freaked out. _This isn't natural._ Plants almost never have this kind of order; it takes a mind for thing to grow so neatly. Someone in this camp has quite the green thumb.

The huts are also crawling with bandits. As they cross paths, the brigands give them a wide berth, several nodding to Blake’s escort.

“I’m Vernal, by the way.” The girl is clearly some sort of lieutenant, her swaggering gait speaking of hard-earned authority. “Don’t worry,” she goes on, catching the glance Blake shoots over one shoulder. “The Chieftain wouldn’t save your friend’s ass just to let her croak now.”

Several minutes’ walk brings the pair to a low dome of saplings decorated with a cloth bearing the same sign as Vernal’s arm. “Inside,” says the bandit.

With a final wary look, Blake enters. Her eyes soon adjust to the gloom, settling upon a familiar face.

“You!”

Ilia shrinks further into herself, skin drained of color. “I didn’t know!” she defends before Blake can change shape and go for her throat. “He—Adam told me that you were old friends. That the Schnee was deceiving you!” Her eyes are wide and more than a little wet. “He promised they only wanted _her_.”

 _And you were only too happy to believe._ The nagual feels a growl rise in her throat, but chokes it down, claws digging into her palm. With their history, she dearly wants to trust Ilia. And she knows better than most how seductive Adam’s ideals can be, but…

“What are you doing here?” she demands, voice flat.

“I saw Raven take you,” explains Ilia. “I—I was watching from the trees. A passing hawk gave me a ride, and we got here not long after you.”

“We’re neighbors.” Vernal’s dry tone enters through the doorway, shortly followed by her head. “Sometimes, anyway. It’s easier to camp with the jungle at our backs…” She notices Blake’s murderous expression, pulls a grimace of her own, and withdraws. “Try not to get blood on my sheets.”

Silence reigns after the bandit’s departure. Ilia’s gaze alternates between Blake and her own feet, shame carved deep into her features.

For her part, the skin-changer sits back on her heels, deep in thought. If Ilia truly wants to make amends, perhaps Ruby and Weiss _are_ within reach.

“I can't forgive you,” she says bluntly. “Not yet. But I… know that Adam can be persuasive.”

Ilia meets her eye. “What he said made so much sense. I was just so _angry_ —” She breaks off, shaking her head. “I knew what the White Fang are like. I shouldn’t have helped them.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” The shorter girl flinches. “But…” Blake cocks her head, considering. “If you want to start to make thing right—”

“Yes!” blurts the rainforest spirit, then reddens. “What do you need?”

“They won't let me leave,” grumbles Blake. “But if you distract Vernal…”

Her companion is already shaking her head. “Vernal would know.”

A wrinkle grows on Blake’s brow. “How? She seems human.”

“She’s not.” The other girl says no more on the subject, but her words are unshakeable.

“Fine,” snaps Blake. “Then you go. Find Weiss”—the look of dismay on Ilia’s face is almost comical—“and Ruby. Tell them where we are. Help them.”

“I—”

“You owe them that, at _least_.”

Jaw setting, Ilia nods.

The jungle spirit slips away as they exit Vernal’s hut, raising a hand to its owner before loping into the forest. Meanwhile, Blake makes her way to the bandit’s side, brow rising as she approaches. The young woman has gone barefoot, her toes curling into the dirt. Where they touch, green bursts from the earth, buds and shoots growing with unnatural speed.

“I heard Ilia blow my cover,” she explains. “No point in pretending anymore.” A flicker at her shoulders draws the nagual’s eye to an unfolding set of gossamer wings.

Internally, Blake kicks herself. _I should have known. Her name alone…_

“You're the Spring Fairy.”

“Took you long enough.”

She sweeps a pointed glance across the bandit-infested clearing. “Can you blame me? This is the last place anyone… would… look.” Her words slow as further realization dawns. “What are you hiding from?”

Vernal’s face hardens, the hum of her wings pitching upward. “That’s—”

Her retort is cut off by the thunder of a not-so-distant roar. The source is not hard to guess, courtesy of the pillar of orange flame rising from the center of camp. Blake only gawks for a moment before breaking into a run.

“Yang!”

 

**TOURNAMENT SPEECH (Ruby)**

Ruby’s been running for days.

She and Weiss had first stopped to rest a few miles from the White Fang camp. That break had lasted for less than an hour before they’d heard it: the _whirr-av-av-av-av_ of chain chewing through plant life.

“They sent Banesaw!” Ruby had yelped, drawing a tired glare from Weiss.

“‘ _Bane Saw_ ’?”

“Because of the saw-sword.” Which Ruby is _still_ dying to get her hands on. “And… well, he’s really scary.”

The faunus of indeterminate type has been after them ever since. They don’t know if he’s alone, making it unwise to stand and fight, but with Ruby’s wolf shape and her partner’s glyphs, they’ve been able to keep their lead. By alternating between that and walking, the two young women have been able to maintain a decent pace.

As they run, Ruby can't stop thinking about Yang and Blake, spirited away by a dragon even larger than her sister. She’s considered turning back countless times, only discouraged by the fact that they have no idea where their friends even are.

Besides, whenever they pause, that sound reappears.

“He’s like a machine!” Ruby exclaims, rising to human form to brace her hands on her knees. “How the heck does Banesaw keep following us?”

Weiss shakes her head, panting even harder than the werewolf. “Don’t… call… him that.”

 _Whirr-av-av-vvvvrrrr_. The noise is closer this time than ever before.

“Is he _gaining_ on us?” whines the younger girl. “Oh, come on!”

Neither of them had been eager to set foot in Ilia’s jungle after what she’d done. Instead, they’d looped around, hoping to lose their pursuer in the rocky wilderness that surrounds the rainforest.

What had actually happened was them running around for days, getting more and more tired and living off the jerky in Ruby’s pack. She’s half sure they're going in circles, but at least this patch of forest doesn’t look too familiar. The huntress-in-training can hear running water, somewhere not far off but oddly muffled. Maybe they can put together a raft, escape that way?

“This way!” Weiss points in the opposite direction. “That’s north. Atlas is that way.”

“Yang isn't. Blake isn't.” They walk as they talk, splitting the difference and going east.

The princess looks away. “You don’t know that.”

“We need to find my Uncle Qrow,” Ruby insists. “He—”

“We _need_ to lose that maniac.” Weiss sounds even more ragged than she looks. Using her magic this much must be stupendously draining. “Atlas has regular border patrols. They should take care of him.”

“And _you_ ,” points out the werewolf. “Bounty, remember?”

“Or,” says a lilting voice from somewhere around knee height. “Take door number three.”

Both of them look down to see a small, furry head poke out of the bush by their feet.

“Come with me,” says the rabbit, “if you wanna live.”

Right on cue, the _vvvrr-rr-rr-rr_ of Banesaw’s weapon echoes through the trees, even closer than the last.

“Well?” the bunny chirps. “This isn't usually a difficult choice.”

Weiss, to Ruby’s surprise, reacts first. “Fine,” she huffs.

“Fine?”

“She can't be worse than—”

“Banesaw.”

“— _him_.” The princess gestures with her chin. “And if it turns out we can't trust the fluffy bunny, you can always eat her.”

“I can?” Weiss is doing something with her eyebrows, but it takes her companion a moment to catch on. _Ohhh_. “Oh! I mean… yes, I most certainly will.” Ruby lets her canines show. “Grrr.”

The rabbit twitches her nose, unimpressed. “C’mon.” She points a paw over one shoulder. “The boat’s this way.”

 _Boat?_ Ruby and Weiss race after their diminutive guide, following her out of the woods and onto a stretch of bare earth. The sound of water is louder here, but there’s no stream in view until Ruby jogs a few steps further and spots the cliff.

“She must have a boat down below in the river,” Weiss says. “But how…”

She trails off as the bunny reaches the ledge, unties a rope from a stake, and starts to pull.

“Little help?”

With their aid, a dinghy bobs into view. It looks barely big enough to hold them, most of the back end taken up by some kind of dust engine… which would explain how the boat is _flying_.

Any time for questions vanishes when a hulking figure bursts from the tree line, shaking off flecks of shredded greenery.

“SCHNEEEE!” he bellows.

“Strewth!” curses the rabbit. “That’s Banesaw? Getton!”

Weiss obeys with a grimace. “I _abhor_ that the name is catching on,” she sniffs, then flicks a hand and summons a barrier of ice. “Hurry. That won't hold him for long.”

As she settles into the boat, Ruby grasps at the empty air over her hip quiver, lamenting her lack of arrows. Thankfully, they’re well away by the time Banesaw shatters Weiss’s wall, leaving the faunus to shake his fist as they rise into the sky.

“The name’s Velvet.” Their deliverer introduces herself with a shallow bow, hopping to the stern of the boat. _Or is that the prow?_ Ruby takes the time to wonder. _The pointy end, anyway_. “Good t’ meetcha!”

“Where are you taking us?” questions Weiss, still craning her neck to keep an eye on the rapidly shrinking Banesaw.

“Neutral ground,” Velvet claims. “You were talkin’ about Qrow… Branwen, roight?”

“That’s my uncle!”

“Yeah, he’s been askin’ around about a certain princess,” explains the rabbit. “So when we ‘eard about you being hounded by that biggun, I thought I’d pop down ‘n claim that finder’s fee.”

Nodding happily, Ruby wriggles around on her seat to face Weiss. And pauses. _Huh_. For the first time, she registers that the white-haired girl is smaller than her. An inch in height, sure, but overall as well. Leaner, softer around the edges. _Fancy livin’ll do that to you_ , she sagely notes. The princess just holds herself so tall that her stature is easy to overlook.

They brush through a cloud, and she realizes that her partner is staring. Not at her, which is a relief, but over her shoulder. Curious, Ruby follows those ice-blue eyes up and around… to the sight of what can only be described as a floating amphitheater.

“Whoooah.”

They glide up to one of the many small docks built into the base, and the werewolf immediately scrambles off to peek down at the utterly monstrous dust crystal around which the airborne arena is built. Weiss drags her away before she can start to drool, and continues to drag her into the stadium proper, where a cheering crowd roars above their heads.

On the lowest level, where they stand, a collection of small stalls and shops line the walls, encircling the roped-off square in the center. Visitors bustle between the stores or gather around the ring, citizens of all kingdoms gathered together for some kind of spectacle.

“WELCOME!”

On the far end, an elevated box holds two men, their appearances a study in contrasts. One tall, one short. One with a bushy white moustache, the other with an emerald head of hair. One boisterous and rotund, the other vibrating with all the energy of a caffeinated rake. They seem to be taking turns shouting into a row of megaphones, their words scored with a jaunty tune played by the band of ringside musicians.

“TO AMITY COLOSSEUM!” the portly one finishes, then clears his throat. “I still don’t see why you insist I repeat that at regular intervals,” he continues, voice only slightly lowered.

Even at this distance, Ruby can see his partner raise a quivering finger. “Proper announcements are essential for both continuity and convenience! But, more importantly, Peter, these people don’t care about your confusion! Back to the tournament!”

“Quite right, Sir—”

“Doctor!” corrects the tall one. “I didn’t get that alchemical degree for fun!”

“Yes, yes, _Doctor_ Oobleck. We have an excellent display about to begin, don’t you agree?”

The green-haired man nods. “Indeed, Sir Port. In today’s match are two of the most competent competitors to enter our… competition. In corner number one, the Moving Mountain himself! The Jade Giant, the Emerald Titan… DAAAAICHI!”

Open-mouthed—and still being towed along by Weiss—Ruby swings her head toward the ring. From this angle, she can see the chiseled form of a green golem, stripped to the waist and wearing a colorful full-face leather hood. His features peek through holes in the mask, and a carved mouth hangs open in an echoing roar to the crowd.

“Aaand in corner number two,” the other announcer steps in, “the Un-de-feated Amazon! Sanctum’s Savior and the Pride of Phthia! PYRRHIC VIIICTORY!”

A tall, red-haired woman holds up muscled arms, her golden armor glittering under the dust-boosted spotlights. Her domino mask only serves to accent gemlike green eyes, a wide smile on her lips.

 _Yang would love this_ , Ruby thinks, feeling a frown cross her face. “So where’s Uncle Qrow?” she says aloud, bending slightly to spot Velvet among the forest of legs.

“This way.” The rabbit points an ear toward… the local bar.

She really shouldn’t be surprised. “All right!” says Ruby. “Let’s go sober him up.”

“Oh, _joy_ ,” she hears Weiss mutter.

 

**INTERLUDE- MARCH OF (Jacques)**

Lord Jacques Schnee, first of his name, glares into his mirror.

The wizard within looks back, expression mild as ever. “I can't lie,” he claims. “Everything I’ve shown you _has_ occurred.”

 _Whether I like it or not_. The words may not be spoken, but Jacques hears them all the same. And he certainly does not like it. The looking glass has provided reports of minor resistance all across his kingdom, but nothing tangible, nothing he can _use_. Even those beasts in the Royal Wood have started to stir, and he knows that more of their breed are sure to be lurking within Atlas’s borders.

“Perhaps you’d like another update?” suggests the looking glass, lips carefully flat. “Abandoned mine, vandalized checkpoint, abandoned mine, civilian protest, destroyed mine, leveled production plant, abandoned mine… Oh! Another of your Knight factories has just started burning.”

“ _Enough_ of your tongue.” As the head falls silent, he reaches to one side, gaze not shifting, and rings a bell.

They wait for several minutes as a clattering becomes audible in the hall outside. It grows louder as the source approaches, then crescendos as Klein bustles through the treasury door, balding head ducking in a bow.

“My lord?”

With a wave of the king’s hand, the mirror goes dark as he stands from his chair. “Is there any news of my daughters?”

Ever since those mongrels had infiltrated his castle, this accursed mirror refuses to show Jacques his wayward offspring. The wizard claims to have been ensorcelled by the rebel scum, and though he doubts its veracity, the object’s utility prevents him from shattering it outright. Thus, instead of spying on his daughters from afar, untraceable and untouchable, he has been forced into doubling, then tripling the price on their heads.

“T-there are several claimants waiting for an audience,” the steward mumbles. “But—”

“Good!” Jacques sweeps past his servant, locking the treasury door behind them. “Show me.”

…

When they reach the throne room, the king is… less than satisfied.

“These are no daughters of mine!” He stalks down the line of supposed princesses. “This one is too short, that one too tall. This one has the wrong color hair, and _that_ one is a scarecrow in a dress.” His moustache bristles as he whirls on Klein. “How dare you let these imbeciles into my castle? Don’t they know that my daughters are—”

The audience of servants, guards, and reward-seekers leans in as he falters.

“They are… white-haired,” Jacques manages, wracking his brain. “And, ah… female. With… blue eyes?” Klein nods. “Indeed, blue eyes. The elder is tall…er than the younger.” He coughs into a hand. “Yes, that should be enough for the rabble.”

As the bounty hunters slouch out of the chamber, Jacques allows his posture to sag just a fraction of an inch. “General!” he calls.

Ironwood appears by the throne, metal hand clasped to his chest. “My king?”

“Tell me you have good news. Have the patrols picked anything up? Intelligence?” he inquires without much hope. Asking his soldiers for _intelligence_ is nearly always a rather Sisyphean task.

“Actually, yes.” It’s telling that James himself sounds bemused. “If you would, Your Majesty?”

As the king follows his general to Castle Schneeballschlacht’s dungeons, the court enchanter falls into step beside them.

“Doctor Watts,” greets Ironwood, watching the charcoal-robed man out the corner of one eye. “Any results from the prisoner?”

Arthur Watts is behind half the kingdom’s advancements in dust-powered mechanisms, from the humble Atlesian Knight to his latest prototype, that odd machine he and James call the Electric Nixie.

“Regrettably, no.” Watts raises a gloved hand. “His… kind are rather resistant to the usual methods.”

Jacques doesn’t miss the general’s spurt of satisfaction. Ironwood has never much trusted the doctor, a view the king shares. Despite the value of Arthur’s inventions—a value the general himself can certainly attest to—the mustachioed enchanter himself is far too high-minded to ever truly accept Jacques as his master.

“So what manner of creature have you brought in, James?” The white-haired man runs through the worst-case scenarios. “A troll? A shapeshifter? One of those talking animals?”

Ironwood doesn’t meet his eye. “None of those, sir.”

“Well? Spit it out, man!”

It’s too late. They’ve reached the door. The king enters first, and sees…

“There’s no one here.” His voice cold, Jacques turns to his subordinates. “If you have let another of those _things_ loose in my palace—”

“No, no,” Watts is quick to point out. “There. On the table.”

He walks forward, leans as close as he can.

“Hey,” says the prisoner, a gingerbread man. The dark biscuit has a frosted-on pair of pants… as well as a roguishly arranged hat, tie, and sunglasses. “How’s it hanging, King Schnee?” One of the biscuit’s legs has been cracked in half, and its iced-on face appears bruised.

Slowly, deliberately, Jacques swivels back to the general. “What is the meaning of this farce?”

“The rest of his resistance cell… got away.”

Doctor Watts sniffs, the breath rustling his black moustache. “Oh, how _did_ you manage to hold on to this one?” he mocks.

“It’s more dangerous than it looks, my lord.” Ironwood flexes his non-metallic hand. “And surprisingly durable.”

Jacques bends over the voluble cookie, now noting the metal bands that secure it to its tray. “What do you know?” demands the king. “Speak, pastry!”

“Have you met Jack?”

Ironwood leans forward. “He keeps saying that. Some kind of code phrase, perhaps.”

“Let _me_ at the creature, my lord.” Watts looms over the captive cookie, a greedy glimmer in his eye. “I have seven projects that would benefit from his raw ingredients alone—”

“Not yet.”

His chief enchanter sags, but only for the blink of an eye. “Then allow me to acquire samples, at least. Just one leg—”

“ _Later_ , Arthur.” The king clears his throat before looking back down at the gingerbread jailbird. “No,” he answers its query. “I have not met this… Jack that you speak of.”

“Pity,” drawls the gingerbread man. “Sorry, can't spill the beans to someone who doesn’t know Jack.”

Watts doesn’t quite manage to mask a snicker.

“General.” Jacques rises to his full height. “Fetch me… some _milk_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Action, music, and family drama abound as our heroines find their way back together.


	6. Fighting Shape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Blake and Yang accept the dubious hospitality of the Branwen tribe, Ruby and Weiss find Winter. Eventually.

**SUNFLOWER (Yang)**

“Don’t expect me to save you a second time.”

These are the first words Yang Xiao Long ever hears from her mother’s lips.

Blinking groggily, the blonde sits up, spitting out a stray lock of hair. “Who the $%&@ are you?” Her hands rise to scrub her face. “Where the #@*! am I?” _And why is my arm so numb?_

A face materializes from the murk, one Yang’s seen before. In the faded painting at the back of her father’s closet, of him and three others. Uncle Qrow. Ruby’s mother, Summer Rose. And Yang’s, Raven Branwen.

Her features reflect Yang’s aside from the slightly broader jaw, the grooves around her eyes. She’s older than she’d been in that portrait, but Yang would recognize that face anywhere. After all, she’d spent hours memorizing every detail.

Raven purses her lips, a breath of flame lighting the candle in her hands. With deliberate care, she sets it aside, eyes rising to meet Yang’s.

“I left an enchantment on you as a baby,” she says, as if that’s a normal way to begin a conversation with the daughter you abandoned at birth. “Once—and _only_ once—it would alert me when your life was in danger.” A corner of her mouth ticks up. “You're welcome.”

Yang finds her voice. “Really?” she shouts. “No ‘How have you been?’ No ‘What have you done with your life?’ No explanation for ditching me and Dad to”—she sneers at her surroundings—“live the high life?” She sucks in a breath, chest heaving. “Do you know what that did to him? Do you know how long I’ve been searching for you? Do you even CARE?”

Panting, the dragon sits back on her heels. Her piece said, Yang’s rage ebbs… for the half second before Raven opens her mouth.

“Are you done?” she says, voice cool. “I’d have thought even your mutt of a father would have taught you some manners by now. Tai—”

Yang sees red, her hand suddenly twisted into Raven’s collar. “Don’t you _dare_ say his name!” She draws back her other fist, then pauses, registering the unusual lightness of her…

Memories come flooding back, staggering her with their force. A hand—her _only_ hand—lifts to the blonde’s temple as she reels, lips moving soundlessly. _Uncle Qrow’s inn. The White Fang. Adam. B—_

“Blake!” she yelps. “What did you do with her?” She thinks she remembers seeing Ruby and Weiss flee into the woods, but Blake had been right beside her in Raven’s grasp.

“Nothing,” sighs the older woman. “Your faunus friend is outside. Now calm down, you're making a fool of yourself.”

Mouth dropping open, Yang waves her ha—her _stump_ in the other dragon’s face. “I think it’s pretty appropriate! If this is that ‘tribe’ you abandoned us for, then we’re surrounded by bandits! Vultures! And now _you_ want me to relax!”

“Your great-grandfather was a vulture,” Raven replies, voice mild. “There’s no need for hysterics, Sunflower.”

Yang feels her breath catch. _That’s—_

She shakes herself. In these circumstances, hearing her father’s favored nickname from that woman’s lips is like some twisted dream come true. It makes the blonde’s head spin, muddling her host’s following words.

“Wait.” Yang forces herself to breathe. “What was that?”

“I _said_ ,” replies Raven, “that it will grow back.”

The dragon blinks. “What?” she repeats dumbly.

“Didn’t your father or uncle ever tell you?” The dark-haired woman flexes her fingers. “Our kind are strong. Resilient. We’re survivors.”

“No,” grits Yang. “They don’t talk much about your side of the family. Can't imagine why.” _Hold on…_ Her frown deepens. “Dad told me you all just turned into birds.”

“Oh, please.” Raven tosses her head. “You’re a _dragon_. You couldn’t have honestly believed that.”

“It was all I had!”

“Bird-shape was gifted to the menfolk of our kind,” elaborates Raven. “We, on the other hand, received… more from our lineage.”

Fascinating as that is, Yang finds her attention being dragged back to her missing arm. Her nose wrinkles as she notices the oily balm on the end of her stump, drawing a soft snort from Raven.

“Don’t scratch,” orders the woman. “That’s an ancestral recipe. It’ll speed up your regeneration, get you back in fighting shape.” She smirks, “Once again, you're welcome.”

“RRAARRRGGGH.” Yang’s roar of fire incinerates half the roof. “ _Welcome_?” she snarls, wiping her lips. “Just shut up! I’m leaving, is what I am.”

She stumbles as she pushes through the tent flap. That outburst had really taken it out of her, draining the dragon much more than usual. She needs rest, but Yang will be damned if she’s going to let her guard down _here_.

Her eruption has attracted half the camp, including Blake. The werecat appears at Yang’s side, looking everywhere but the empty space where the blonde’s lower arm should be, and offers an elbow—which is promptly ignored.

“You're awake,” she says. _And alive_ , goes unspoken. Her tone is low, but the relief within is obvious.

“Yup.” Yang feels some of the weight lift from her back. She’s not alone here after all. “Still in one p—” She lets her head fall to one side, mouth forming into a bemused circle. “Oh, _that’s_ where that expression comes from!”

Blake laughs, then claps a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she says, going solemn. “This is all my fault.”

“No way!” Yang pauses, considering. “Definitely not _all_.”

She’d been hoping for another laugh, but the shapeshifter just looks down, ears drooping.

Their audience of bandits straightens—or at least slouches slightly less—as their leader emerges. Several give saluting their best go, and one young woman springs to Raven’s side, bare feet squeaking against the boards.

“I’m afraid you can't leave yet.” The older dragon ignores Yang’s growl, crimson eyes impassive. “It would be quite irresponsible of me to let you gallivant about in your condition.”

“Oh, don’t pretend to care now,” scoffs Yang. “You—”

“She’s right,” Blake murmurs. “You should still be resting. And…” Amber eyes finally drop to the blonde’s stump.

“Yeah, that’ll grow back.” This whole encounter is almost worth it just to see the look of utter shock on Blake’s face. _Like she’s been slapped by a salmon_ , observes Yang.

“You can _do_ that?”

“Hey, it was news to me too.”

The irritated clearing of Raven’s throat is music to Yang’s ears. _See how_ she _likes being ignored for a change._

“Seeing as you're both feeling so chatty,” the older dragon snips. “Why doesn’t one of you fill me in on how you got into that mess?”

“%&*! that,” says Yang. “We’re out of—”

“Vernal?”

Yang blinks, and a thicket of nasty-looking branches bursts from the dirt, forming a thorny ring around her and Blake. The girl beside Raven shoots them a smug smile, deer horn knives twirling in her hands.

“I can _fly_ ,” the blonde points out.

“Do you think it’s a good idea to change so soon after an outburst like your last?” Raven retorts. “You may have cooled down, but the dragon _always_ runs hot.”

 _That’s ridiculous_. But Yang can't help but glance down, feeling the enraged tingle of her absent arm. “Is that… true?”

Reluctantly, Blake bobs her head. “I’ve heard stories. After something like that, you really should ease into it.”

“There is so much I could teach you.” The wall of thorns parts as Raven strides forward. “About your abilities, about yourself.” She stands before them, one hand propped on her hip. “And maybe one day, you might even lead the tribe.”

“Gee, all of this? Somebody pinch me.” Turning to the bandits themselves, Yang holds up her hands. “No offense.”

“Eh,” grunts Vernal, shrugging as her cage of plant life continues to grow.

Raven folds her arms. “Well?”

“Until my arm is back,” scowls Yang. “And not a second more.”

 

**SINGING PRINCESS PART I (Weiss)**

Sadly, Qrow is just as Weiss remembers. Scruffy, travel-stained, and none too sober, he slumps over the Colosseum’s bar, slurring his way through a conversation.

His companion, though not Winter, is also known to the princess. “Isn't he…” Ruby has the same realization, screwing up her nose and narrowing her eyes into a face of exaggerated scrutiny.

“One of those highwaymen,” Weiss hisses. “What is he doing here?”

A paw taps her shin. “Neutral ground,” reminds Velvet. “Remember?”

At their voices, the burly figure turns, sees them, and curses.

“Mister Xiong,” Weiss greets, voice frosty. “I see you evaded the law.”

“Call me Junior,” sighs the robber. “And, ah… where are those friends of yours? Blondie and that big black cat.”

Ruby’s shoulders sag at the reminder. “Not here,” she pouts.

At her words, the outlaw slumps with relief. “Down, girls,” he calls, eyes aimed past them.

Weiss spins just in time to see a familiar pair of twins sheathe their blades. Frowning, she flexes her fingers as the red- and white-clad women brush past, joining Junior at the bar.

“They're the ones who left you all beat up in the woods?” Qrow attempts to slap his thigh, misses, and hits his stool instead. “That’s m’girls.”

“Uncle Qrow!” With a squeal, Ruby throws herself onto the man, dangling off his shoulders like a second cape. “It’s been _forever_! Did you miss me?”

“Pfft. Nope,” mutters Qrow, but a smile is tugging at his mouth.

Their easy ribbing makes Weiss shift uneasily. Her family had never been like the Branwen-Rose-Xiao-Long bunch, not even back when they’d all lived in one place. Now, with she and Winter on the run and Mother gone, it looks like they never will be.

“My sister,” the princess interjects, shaking herself from her thoughts. “I believe you and she crossed paths?”

Ruby’s uncle spares her a wobbly nod. “Yup. Sure have.”

“And when we last met, you didn’t think to, oh, _mention this_?”

He hitches one shoulder. “Didn’t know you then. Barely know ya now.” One finger clumsily taps his nose. “Be a pretty lousy spy if I went blabbing to anyone who’d listen.”

“Competent spies,” Weiss grits out, “tend not to _brag about being spies_.”

“Aheh heh,” chuckle Ruby, eyes darting between her uncle and partner. “Let’s not get riled up, okay?”

“Hey now, Ice Queen Junior,” rasps Qrow. “Is this the thanks I get? Been working my ass off—”

The princess snorts. “Drinking your… face off, more likely.”

“Next to an information broker!” the spy finishes, arms thrown up in triumph. “So there.”

Junior confirms with a nod. “One of the best,” he boasts. “That mercenary work was a side gig.” The man glares at his identical compatriots. “One I was talked into against my better judgement.”

“Ugh. We were getting bored,” drawls the twin in red.

“There’s like, barely anything to do up here,” her sister agrees.

“Except watch the fights.”

“And ever since the amazon showed up…”

“Those are getting boring too.”

“She always wins,” grumbles the white-clad twin.

“ _Excellent_ shoulders though.” They share a dreamy sigh before hooking their arms through Junior’s and hauling the man toward the ring. As they depart, a roar goes up from around the arena.

“And there it is!” Doctor Oobleck cries from the announcers’ box. “Miss Victory’s signature finisher, the Forever Fall!”

His partner lets out a booming laugh. “Indeed. And that’s the match, ladies and gentlemen.”

The fighter in question staggers upright, her rocky opponent groaning into the mat. With a fanfare from the band, she bows and makes her exit.

“Shoot,” Weiss hears Velvet curse. “We all thought Yatsu could take ‘er. So long, prize money.”

“Aaanyway,” groans Qrow. “Don’ worry about your sister. She’s around… somewhere. Sorta lost track.” He squints at his hands.

“Winter’s _here_?” Suddenly frantic, Weiss pats at her hair, brushes off her dress as best she can. “Where?”

“Sure,” Ruby’s uncle slurs. “Around.”

“We’ll find her,” promises his niece. “Come on, it’ll go faster if we split up.”

Before they can, a pointed cough drifts up from knee level. “Ahem,” prompts Velvet, gaze fixed on Qrow. “You promised—”

“Right, right.” The man fishes a pouch from his cloak. “Well done you.”

The rabbit catches her reward, which is roughly the size and shape of her torso. “Much obliged.” With a grunt, she hoists the jingling bag over one shoulder.

“You sure like money a lot,” observes Ruby, face shining with earnest curiosity. “What’s it all for?”

Velvet puffs out her furry chest. “For the Revolution!”

“The Atlas one?” Qrow confirms. “Oh, good. Consider that my contribution for the month.”

Weiss frowns down at the bunny. “I _knew_ you looked familiar,” she says. “You were at a relocation center in southern Atlas, weren’t you? About two weeks ago.” She manages a thin smile. “Clearly, you escaped. Good.”

“An’ how d’you know that, Your Majesty?” The bunny fixes her with a suspicious eye.

“Because so did I.” Weiss doesn’t have time for this. Not when her sister is within her reach. “Ruby!” she calls.

“Present!”

The princess points. “You take that side. I shall search the other.”

“Aye aye!”

…

The throng that fills Amity Colosseum is made up of all shapes, sizes, and species. If anything, here humans are the minority, a sharp contrast to what Weiss had become used to in Atlas. Her travels with Blake, and later the sisters, have done much to broaden her horizons, but the princess is still shocked by some of the beings she squeezes past.

About a quarter of the way around the arena, Weiss realizes that she is being followed. She looks back, her sister’s name on her lips, but the sight that greets her is far less welcome.

“Banesaw,” whispers the princess, then curses Ruby for coining the absurd moniker. A hand drops to Myrtenaster as she ducks her head and hurries onward, hoping to find somewhere to hide. _If I can give him the slip and collect reinforcements, we can put a stop to this right here_.

But the large faunus knows he’s been seen. Cries of annoyance go up from the crowd as he plows through, gaining on Weiss even as she breaks into a jog.

The princess doesn’t dare use her glyphs. They would be a dead giveaway to any of her family’s numerous enemies, and no matter how neutral the Colosseum may be, she doesn’t want to attract any more attention than the seven-foot goon already on her tail. Instead, Weiss dives into the thickest part of the mob, worming her way to the side of the combat ring.

It doesn’t do much good. The masked faunus is only slightly slowed, his sheer bulk allowing him to wade through the spectators with relative ease. In moments, Weiss feels fingers as thick and cold as steel ingots wrap around her wrist, crushing her fingers as Banesaw jerks them together. It's a small mercy that his chain-bladed sword is nowhere to be seen; the thug could probably squash her with a single hand.

Her free arm is seized as she tries to sketch a glyph, putting her almost entirely at Banesaw’s nonexistent mercy.

 _Almost_ entirely. Weiss waits for her assailant to hoist her off the floor, then swings both spiked heels into the man’s groin.

His roar temporarily silences the crowd, but the princess barely notices. She’s too busy flying through the air, tossed away by the faunus out of sheer reflex. Her fingers throb, too stiff to summon any sigils before she hits the ground.

It’s softer than she’d expected. Strangely rubbery as well. Almost like—

Weiss looks up into the spotlights of the ring.

“Oh ho ho!” rumbles Sir Port. “What have we here? A new challenger!” He cocks his head. “Is that allowed?”

“Hold on—” the princess starts.

“Indeed!” Doctor Oobleck chimes in. “Such impromptu registrants are readily regarded by Tournament regulations. A rather regular recurrence, in fact.”

Numbly, Weiss shakes her head. She has no desire to fight the amazon, the golem, or whatever other juggernauts these madmen have in store. Not bare-handed, and _certainly_ not in one of those ridiculous outfits. But on the other hand, Banesaw doesn’t dare to enter the light, his beady eyes glaring out from the edge of the expectant crowd.

 _I can't run_ , she thinks fast. _I won't fight_.

As she draws in a breath, the audience seems to hold theirs.

_But I can give them a show._

Sweat beading on her palms, Weiss turns to the band—which, to her brief surprise, contains another one of Junior's crew: an accordion-bearing black bear who shies away from her raised finger. “Very well.” She pins them with the most authoritative glare in her arsenal. “The key is B major. Watch me for the changes and do _try_ to keep up.”

They blink back until she snaps her fingers, sending them scrambling for their instruments.

As the musicians pull themselves together, Weiss looks back out over the audience. Closes her eyes. Cracks them open. And begins to sing.

 _“Mirror…”_ she warbles, voice rolling across the hushed spectators. _“Can you hear me?_

_“Do I… reach you?_

_“Are you even listening?_

_“Can I get through?”_

Another breath calms her racing heart. She hasn’t sung in front of a crowd this large for years, but the princess presses on. In the thinnest of silver linings, Banesaw’s ringside presence is a _tremendous_ motivator.

_“There’s a part of me that’s desperate for changes._

_“Tired of being treated like a pawn._

_“But there’s a part of me that stares back, from inside the mirror._

_“Part of me that’s scared I might be wrong._

_“That I can't. Be. Strong…_

Her voice soars as she sinks into the music. For the crowd—and in case Winter is watching—Weiss stretches her fingers and summons a spiral of stepped glyphs to climb while she sinks into her performance.

…

_“I won’t be possessed!_

_“Burdened by your royal test!_

_“I will not surrender,_

_“This life… is… mine!”_

When the song ends, the Colosseum is silent as a tomb, save for a few ill-concealed sniffles. In the announcers’ compartment, Sir Port wipes an eye.

“Bravo!” he bawls. “Bravo! Ahem.” The man clears his throat. “Now, are there any other combatants in waiting?”

 _What?_ Weiss feels the blood drain from her cheeks as Banesaw ducks into the ring. He has to stretch the ropes out of the way, barely squeezing through the gap before unfolding to his full, terrifying height. To her supreme satisfaction, he still has a slight limp.

Doctor Oobleck claps his hands. “Another late entry! It seems we indeed have an additional altercation to anticipate!”

“Right you are, Barty—”

“ _Doctor_.”

“Yes, yes. And what a matchup. It puts me in mind of the little fellow we had last week. A real David-and-Goliath tale, that was.” His bushy brows come together. “Refresh my memory, Doctor. What was his name?”

“David,” supplies his partner.

“Ah, yes. And his opponent?”

“That would be the Goliath.”

Weiss tunes out their nattering, feet backing unprompted toward the far edge of the mats. _Perhaps I can slip away_.

But the moat of spectators soon discourages that notion. The princess aims a hopeful glance over the crowd, praying for a glance of Winter, or even Ruby. Instead, she sees Junior and the Twins, who hoot their encouragement.

Then Banesaw is pounding forward, thick arms outstretched to either side. Weiss barely manages to slip past, dancing across the ring as the crowd roars. A glyph summoned at the small of his back sends the faunus careening into one of the corner posts, but the impact only seems to feed his mad rage.

“Finally!” he hisses, masked face glaring over one broad shoulder. “I get to kill a Schnee.”

The next several minutes are a string of near misses and ineffective strikes. Even supported by her magic, Weiss’s best efforts do negligible damage to the White Fang assassin, and Myrtenaster lies on the sidelines, forbidden by the arena’s absurd laws of combat.

Her luck runs out when a massive hand closes over her face. The scent of sweat and oil fills her nostrils, a muffled cry escaping her lips as she is flung into the ropes. On the rebound, Weiss is met by a clothesline, the princess folding almost double around his outstretched arm.

As she sags gasping to the floor, a slim hand enters her view. “Tag me!” commands a half-familiar voice.

Left without a surplus of choice, Weiss obeys, dragging herself through the ropes as her new ally steps in. “Who—” she croaks. “Oh, no.”

Ilia doesn’t waste a moment, sliding beneath a vicious swing to put herself behind the big faunus. Leaving the mat with a frog like bound, she scales his towering form like a tree, legs soon wrapping around his trunk of a neck.

"Traitor!" Banesaw hacks out, scrabbling at his constricted throat. "You'll pay for thi—hrrggk."

“Oh, shut up,” retorts Ilia, eloquent as ever.

Stunned, Weiss clambers to her feet. _What is_ she _doing here?_ The princess looks between her unexpected savior and the delighted audience, still unable to locate her companions. Should she run? Stay? She certainly doesn’t owe the jungle spirit a thing.

“Well struck!” Port’s cry draws her eye back to the ring, where Ilia is bashing Banesaw with a flying elbow. It sends him reeling long enough for her to jump, slingshot off the border ropes, and knee him in the center of his mask.

“Give him the chair!” someone calls. Said folding seat is subsequently shoved into Weiss’s hands, the crowd nudging her back to the ringside.

Within, Banesaw’s thick fingers have finally found Ilia. Her arm is dwarfed in his grasp, skin flaring scarlet as she bucks. Before he can make use of the hold, Ilia’s legs come off the ground, her entire body twining around his arm. With a twist of her core, the guardian locks the limb, tearing a screech from her opponent as he drops to one knee.

Their flailing finally dislodges his mask, at last revealing his faunus trait—a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth. _A piranha_ , Weiss notes, stomach turning as he rears back and bites a chunk out of his foe’s calf.

“Aargh!” she cries, gaze meeting Weiss’s.

The princess summons a glyph. Leaps. Swings. The chair shatters. Banesaw sways, Ilia still wrapped around one arm, and slowly crumples to the ground.

“There.” Fading to a victorious purple, the spirit hops up onto one foot, injured leg held off the floor. “I—”

Myrtenaster pricks her throat. “Be very careful,” Weiss pants. “About what you say next.”

“No fighting in the arena!” Oobleck’s words echo from above. “Amity Colosseum is no place for petty—”

Ruby appears at her shoulder several minutes too late, quivering with excitement. “I didn’t know you could sing!” she accuses.

“Focus,” chides Weiss, not taking her eyes off Ilia. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, right.” The werewolf throws a lopsided salute. “Reporting, ma’am. I… have found your sister!”

Weiss double-takes.

“Yes, I suppose she has.” Winter sighs. “Hello, Weiss.”

 

**RIDING THE DRAGON (Blake)**

“Brooding again?”

Blake looks up with a start at the approaching Vernal. She’s still not used to being snuck up on, but the Spring Fairy seems to delight in surprising her guest.

“I’m thinking ahead,” the werecat denies.

Vernal grows a wicker chair from the dirt and flops down, matching Blake’s stare into the middle distance. “Whatever you want to call it,” she agrees easily enough. “Now, what’re we looking at?”

As if in response, a roar shakes the surrounding forest.

“Oh.” The fairy props her chin on one hand. “They’re fighting already?”

‘Fighting’ is the right word. Blake has learned that Yang’s mother has no patience for mere sparring. Or holding back. Raven has emerged the victor in every one of their frequent matches, each loss leaving Yang wheezing, bruised—and burning for more.

The escalating dragon-on-dragon slugfests had been barred from the camp by Vernal after one _particularly_ nasty bout had flattened half the buildings and set the remainder alight.

Now, the inky, jagged silhouette of Raven’s dragon form explodes from the treetops, closely followed by Yang’s. The right forelimb of the younger dragon is still stunted, but their host’s witch-doctor goo has worked miracles. The limb has regenerated up to mid-forearm over the past several days—but at an odd cost.

In contrast to the yellow scales that plate most of Yang’s form, her regrown arm is mottled black. Dark patches stand out against her gold, the marbled skin particularly thick where it crusts over the stump end.

Blake feels her ears prick up as the dragons dance across the sky, their bellowed challenges rolling over the hills. “Why do you never participate?” she asks Vernal. “I never see you training. Not with Raven or the tribe.”

Her own exercises are done in the dead of night, far from prying eyes.

The other woman slouches further, legs thrown out. “I get enough practice keeping this place secure.” Her tattooed arm waves lazily at the stockade. “Hiding it from the law, scaring away nosy adventurers, clearing out the Grimm… And with those two drawing every ear for miles, I’m in for a busy month.”

“I see.” She sees that this camp is an oasis. Blake still doesn’t feel fully safe—then again, she hasn’t for years—but for Vernal, connected to every twig, leaf, and flower in the place, it must be practically a fortress. A camouflaged, ever-alert fortress that can pull up roots and relocate at the drop of an apple.

“The hatchling is doing well,” observes the fairy. “Maybe she’ll even win this time.”

“Helps to have a good motivator,” Blake murmurs.

“You mean a good target.” At the nagual’s raised brow, Vernal shrugs. “Hey, I’m fond of the Branwens, but Raven’s not the boss of me. I can say what I like.”

A particularly vehement cry draws their eyes back to the entangled dragons. Raven, the more powerfully built of the pair, has seized Yang’s scaled scruff between her teeth, shaking her daughter by the back of her neck. Scarlet wings beat to maintain her altitude advantage, but the younger beast never stops wriggling, her wingless, sinuous body looping around Raven to pin her forelegs.

Then, in a puff of white smoke, the golden dragon vanishes, replaced by the glint of Yang’s hair atop her mother’s back. She rains blows down on Raven’s wing joints like a blonde jackhammer, pulling a squawk from her senior as they start to lose height.

Stymied by their size difference, Raven goes human-scale as well, sending the pair into free fall. Over and over they tumble, neither wanting to be on the bottom when they land.

Blake almost stands. “Should we—”

Vernal holds up a finger, leaning forward on her seat. “Ssh! It’s just getting good.”

With a triumphant cry, Raven kicks free… and stops falling. Her feet brace on empty air, the feathers in her hair shining darkly as she throws back her head and bawls out a bird’s laugh.

“I haven't taught you _everything_ , O daughter mine.” Red eyes twinkle down at Yang as she hits the ground with an enraged roar, sending up a respectable mushroom of dust.

“Yee-ah!” This shout comes from one of the outlaws upon the stockade’s nearest wall. “Age over beauty! Ah win today’s pot!”

“Age?” demands Raven while Vernal leaps to her feet, fists balled at her sides.

“Come on…” the lieutenant whispers. “Come on…”

Seeking a decisive conclusion to their contest, Raven morphs back to dragon shape and dives, claws outstretched to turn Yang into Remnant’s prettiest pancake.

“Show ‘er why you’re the boss!” cries the scrawny bandit.

Like Vernal, Blake stays silent.

A split second before the older dragon hammers her into the ground, Yang surges to her feet.

“GGRRRAAAHH!” Her orange fire meets Raven head-on, but her mother barely slows, carving through the flames with a scarlet snort of her own and—

Meets Yang’s fists. Plural. Each of the blonde’s hands—one flesh, the other gleaming black and gold—grasps a single of Raven’s talons, trembling as her feet are forced deep into the earth.

The resistance seems to startle Raven, or at least amuse her long enough for Yang to wrench her entire upper body and fling the black dragon into a nearby boulder nearly as large as she is.

“That counts!” crows Vernal, jabbing a finger back at the camp. “Fork it over, Shay.”

“You bet _on_ her?” A surprise, considering how badly Raven’s daughter and lieutenant get along. As the latter gloats, Blake watches the former wade free of her crater and march towards—no, past them and into the camp.

The blonde trades glares with Vernal before nodding to Blake. “Coming?” Yang asks, pausing at the entry to their hut.

 _When she said ‘not a second more’,_ the nagual reflects, _she meant it._ She stands. “I’m already packed.”

By the time Yang reemerges from their tent, Raven has posted herself outside.

“Leaving so soon?” Her good humor has all but fled. “I—Yang, I thought we had an understanding. Haven't I done as I promised? You’ve healed, you’ve grown…”

Her daughter shoulders her bag. “Sure have. But now that I’m back at a hundred percent,” she says, “I’m going after Ruby.” A sigh. “And the Ice Queen, I guess.”

Raven doesn’t move to stop her, but the lines on her face grow deeper. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself here.”

Yang’s mouth moves soundlessly for several seconds as she musters an honest reply. “I… did. Some of it was… fun.”

“But you’re leaving.”

The irony of this statement is lost on none of them. Yang doesn’t dignify it with a response, merely bowing her head once toward her mother before marching back towards the forest.

“Maybe I’ll come back one day.”

The older dragon looses a chuckle with only a shadow of her original bravado. “If you can find us.”

“I can always start punching trees until Vernal gets pissed off enough to show up.” Yang locks eyes with said fairy as they pass. “You're not going to stop me this time, are you?”

Now holding a large sack in one hand and several coins in the other, the fairy of spring hums in response. “Hmmm. We fair folk are big on deals,” she says, most of her attention captured by her spoils. “And this one seems square to me. Good luck, little dragon.”

Then she’s gone, the walls of her hut parting to let her stroll inside.

…

A mile into the woods, Yang turns to Blake. “Thanks for staying with me.” The dragon’s eyes stare at her scaled hand as it turns back and forth, examining every facet of the blotched limb.

"Don't thank me. I"— _don’t deserve it_ —“didn’t have much choice,” she tries to joke. “And it was hardly a burden. The tribe was…”

“Far, far away from Adam?” The blonde looks up, face blank. “He was a piece of work.”

Blake does her best not to cringe away. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be.” Yang shuffles her feet. “But if you want to tell me more, I’m all ears.”

She only hesitates for a handful of seconds. At this point, Adam is a danger to all of them. Because of _her_. They deserve the full story, Yang most of all.

“Adam and I… we were partners, not too long ago.” Dam broken, words spill from her lips. “I—I ran from home at an early age, after years of tension with my parents. They were content in the forest; I wanted to strike back.” She looks up at her companion. “For a while, I was alone. Then Adam and his people took me in.”

“Strike back against who?” asks Yang, words soft.

“The King.” The werecat has spent untold hours picking apart her own goals, asking that very question. “He’s transformed Atlas, and not for the better. Slowly and insidiously enough to avoid the attention of my parents, but I had always been too curious for my own good. The change was only too obvious to me. And to Adam.”

She takes an uneven breath. “So we fought back together. For years it was… exhilarating. It felt like I was _finally_ making a difference. But then, just like the kingdom, things started to change. Our targets, our methods… I realized that Adam’s White Fang weren’t the heroic band from my parents’ tales. Maybe they never had been, and I’d just been too blind to see it. They’d changed, and I was changing too. So I left.

“He was furious. I abandoned him in the middle of a mission”— _Like I would have done to you_ —“ran back home, and now…”

“And now he’s after us.” Yang straightens, hitching up her pack. “After you and Weiss, anyway. Ruby and I are just speed bumps, apparently.”

Blake darts a look over her partner’s new arm. “He’s gotten worse. By now, I think all he wants is to make Atlas pay.”

The other woman cocks her head. “And you?”

“ _I_ want to save it.” The words come out more forceful than she’d intended, but Yang merely nods.

“Then it’s a good thing we’ve got a better option than King Schnee!” The dragon beams bright enough to burn away their conversation’s dark turn. “I assume that’s what you thought when you and Weiss met, huh?”

The nagual blinks. “Not… exactly.”

As she thinks back through her and the princess’s brief acquaintance, Yang cracks every joint in her human body and a few that aren’t. “Well, we’d better get back to iiiiiIIIIT.” Her voice distorts and Blake springs back as a golden dragon replaces her companion, neck curling to let its scarlet eye meet hers. “Climb on.”

She can't help the way her ears flatten. “Is that… okay?” Good manners vary between magical beings. You’d never presume to ride a centaur, for example. And dragons are infamous for their pride…

“Grab my bag, too,” adds Yang, ignoring her internal waffling. “Chop chop! We’ve got to get on the road. Or should I say, _over_ it?”

As she rolls her eyes, Blake feels some of the tension seep from her gut.

“Ugh. Let’s just go.”

 

**SINGING PRINCESS PART II (Ruby)**

Weiss’s sister is like her, but… more. More chilly. More commanding. More… tall.

 _But not as pretty_ , Ruby thinks loyally, even if it is sort of a fib. Winter is _gorgeous_.

“What a satisfactory performance,” the older princess says, warm and welcoming as an ice sculpture.

“Winter?” whispers Weiss.

“I counted at least three missed notes, but your presence has improved remarkably.”

“Winter?” her sister repeats.

“And you must remember to breathe, sister. From the center, not merely—”

“Winter!” Ruby watches wide-eyed as Weiss performs the neatest, most orderly hug in the history of hugs. “I missed you _so much_ ,” her friend mumbles into the woman’s cloak. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere, and I was shot at and electrocuted and turned into a miniature beast of burden and even saw that awful tower, and…” The princess takes a soggy breath and withdraws. “I apologize. I’m babbling.”

The werewolf’s gaze slides back to Winter.

“Don’t apologize. I have missed you as well.” A white-sleeved arm rises. Pats the younger sister’s shoulder. Retracts. “How have you been?”

 _Now there are two of them_. Side by side, it’s easy to see the many ways in which Weiss mirrors her sister. “I… was recently disowned.”

“Father?”

Weiss nods. “And almost sold into servitude.”

“Ah, Whitley.”

“But I’ve found new allies!”

 _That’s me!_ Ruby starts to wave a hand, only for an iron grip to drag it back down.

“You’ve met Ruby Rose, of course. And her ogre of a sister.”

“Hey!”

A frown crosses Winter’s face. “Wasn’t the elder one a dragon?”

Ruby brightens. “Oh! Weiss!” She bounces on the balls of her feet, buoyed by her news. “Guess what Uncle Qrow told me.”

Both royal sisters make the same face at the mention of her uncle. It’s not a happy face.

“Yang didn’t lose an arm!” The young huntress-in-training can't wait for them to reply. “Well, sort of, but it’ll be back!”

“Xiao Long lost an arm?” Winter demands.

“No,” repeats Ruby. “I just _said_ —”

“In any case!” pipes up Weiss. “I’ve also been aided by a very useful shapeshifter; I hope the two of you can meet soon…”

She trails off, realizing at the same moment as Ruby that they’re not entirely sure what to do next. Then a cough comes from behind the princess, making the werewolf jump.

“Aah! Evil frog girl!” Crescent Rose is out, an arrow nocked and its scythe blade deployed, before Ilia finishes raising her hands. Ruby hadn't even noticed the chameleon spirit leaning against the side of the ring. There’s a joke in there somewhere—something about blending in? Yang could have found it.

“I’m… only one of those things,” retorts the rainforest guardian. “But I’m not here to fight.” Her words are halting, as if each one must be forced past her lips at whip-point. “I’ve come to he—” She coughs. “To hel— To heeh…” A final toss of her head. “To make sure the Schnee doesn’t get herself killed.”

Weiss narrows her eyes. “You have _some nerve_ , Amitola.”

“Oh.” Winter’s whisper is barely audible. “You’re their daughter.”

Ilia bristles, eyes going scarlet from lid to lid. “Don’t—”

Ruby lowers her weapon as a dark shape settles on her shoulder. “Caw,” it caws. “Awk-aww!”

“What’s that, Uncle Qrow?”

“Ca-cah!”

“What’s he saying?” asks Weiss. When Ruby looks away from her feathered family member, three pairs of eyes stare back.

Qrow bobs his beak. “Caw! Caw!”

A snicker escapes Ilia as the werewolf reddens to match her cloak. “I can't say _that_! What else?”

“Craaw!”

“The… marina is wonderfully taxed?” She pushes back her hood to wiggle a finger in one ear. “Sorry, my crow is a little rusty.”

Ilia raises a hesitant hand. “I think he said—”

“THE ARENA IS UNDER ATTACK!” announces Oobleck.

 

**BAD REPUTATION (Yang)**

“I told you to wait!” scowls Blake. “I had everything under control.”

“Ya-ang, what did you do?”

“Oh, it’s only a _little_ bit on fire!”

Yang looks away from her sister, trying to keep the guilt from showing on her face. Maybe she _had_ been a little trigger-happy, but Blake had been gone for a long time and she’d recognized some pretty nasty faces going into the evil flying stadium.

Or ‘Amity Colosseum’, whatever. After half an hour of waiting for Blake, the dragon had just tried to get a closer look, and then people had started shooting at her and yelling, “Attack! Attack!” Her flames had been a perfectly reasonable response.

Anyway, it had worked out. They’re all together now, aren’t they?

“PLEASE STOP PANICKING!” The rotund announcer pleads over the roar of the panicking crowd. No one listens.

Weiss folds her arms, voice cutting through the clamor. “This is _your_ doing. I should have known.”

“Lecture later,” pleads Ruby, dangling from Yang’s neck. “We need to get to the docks!”

“Craaw!” agrees Uncle Qrow.

Ilia and Winter step forward at once. “I know a way out,” both say.

Winter narrows her eyes. “I have a ship.”

“Of course you do,” grumbles the jungle spirit. Even leaning on Blake’s shoulder, she has refused to show her back to either of the Schnees, who have responded by returning the favor.

“Ilia,” warns the werecat.

“Where’s this boat?” Yang asks, raising her voice to be heard over the scrambling masses. “I can't carry everyone.”

Winter points, and their expanded party starts to move.

“Shoot, Banesaw’s gone,” groans Ruby, jerking a thumb at the combat arena.

“Who?”

…

They reach the berth just in time to see Winter’s airship glide into the distance.

“At least it’s only a rental,” she sighs.

“Croo,” coos Qrow.

“He says he told you it would be stolen.” Yang grins into the icy blast of Winter’s wrath. “Are there any other mooring points nearby? We need a way off this rock.”

“We can’t steal an airship!” shrieks Weiss.

Ruby dangles her legs off the platform. “We _could_.”

“But you won’t hafta!”

The light, accented words make the entire party look up as their long-eared speaker descends from the mist on the railing of a sky vessel, shaking droplets from her chocolate fur.

“Velvet?”

“Now that’s twice I’ve saved ya,” teases the rabbit. “We’ve got room for everyone. Hop on!”

With a shrug, Yang hops on. Judging by the eagerness with which her sister clambers aboard—and the fact that Qrow lets her—this motley crew are allies. Or at least friendly to hitchhikers. Blake, Ilia, and the Schnee sisters follow suit, boarding before the ship drops away from the Colosseum.

As they soar amongst the clouds, catching their breath beneath the soothing putter of the craft’s propellers, someone drops from the rigging and lands with a thump by the helmsman. “Welcome aboard!” the faunus cheers, doffing his hat with a yellow-furred tail. “They call me Sunbad the Sailor, and I will be your pirate this evening.”

“That’s _pilot_ ,” the man beside him stage-whispers.

“But you can call me Sun,” continues Sun, ignoring his crewmate. “This educated fellow is Neptune, and beneath your feet is the lovely S.S. Sun.”

“Ssss-n?” slurs Ruby.

A scoff leaks from Winter’s lips. “You named your ship… after yourself?”

Yang looks up. “There aren’t actually any sails on this thing.”

“Where’s your doctor?” Blake's urgent demand cuts through their heckling, a gray Ilia hanging from her side. “She’s losing blood!”

“Sage!” shouts Sun.

Ilia waves the nagual off, slipping free to lean against the gunwale. “I’ll deal with it,” she croaks, flipping open a pocket on her belt. Out of the pouch springs a small, cherry-red frog, which bounds down the lizard-girl’s form to squat protectively over her wound.

“That can't be sanitary,” mutters Weiss, but even she looks on with interest as the injury starts to close.

“Wow,” the captain whistles. “And, uh, right! Back on track, they're waiting for you below.”

The dragon peers back toward the smoking amphitheater, hands flexing at her sides. “Who is?” _And am I in trouble?_

“The boss!” chirps Velvet.

“Of… the Colosseum?”

“Of the _Resistance_ ,” the rabbit sighs.

Blake snorts. “Which one?”

Her derision doesn’t phase their furry-footed liaison. “All of ‘em.”

“Well, we left out the crazies,” Sun calls from above. The Branwens, the White Fang…”

 _Wonderful_. The blonde tries to look innocent, catching Blake’s uneasy frown in the corner of her eye.

Qrow continues to caw encouragingly—apparently reluctant to transform with so many watching—so both pairs of sisters, Blake, and a hobbling Ilia follow Velvet into the hold.

Below, they find themselves at one end of a long table, a dozen disparate beings arrayed along its length. At the very top are a well-dressed mannequin and a large, scarred fox, the latter bracing its front paws on the tabletop. Between them, at the assembly’s head, sits…

She hears Weiss gasp.

“General Ironwood?”

 

INTERLUDE- FAIRYTALE (Amber)

Amber Autumn is _so_ fired.

She’s still relatively new to the godmothering gig—a rookie, really. As the Autumn Fairy, she is responsible for the approximate quarter of all noble children that are born in her namesake season, and despite her inexperience, Amber is happy to say she has an exemplary record for Happily Ever Afters!

Well, better than average. Sixty… almost seventy percent!

But you look away for a measly dozen years, and your godchild goes from cheery child to beleaguered orphan. And, really, wicked stepsisters? Amber hasn’t seen that one for decades.

Sure, she’s been run ragged helping her slothful coworker Vernal, but that’s no excuse for letting one of her children slip through the cracks. If her bosses at _la Compagnie_ catch wind of this, she’ll be bippity-boppity-booted to the curb faster than you can say ‘internal investigation’.

At least there’s the Mistral Ball coming up. If she hurries, the godmother can work with that.

The fairy zips through the air as nimble and small as a dragonfly, her bob of brown hair dancing about her cheeks. “Oh, here’s the house,” she squeaks to herself, gliding through an open window.

Soon, she finds her teenaged charge by the hearth, staring at a heap of burning dresses. The girl doesn’t look away from the stuffed fireplace as Amber grows back to human scale, not even when the fairy coughs daintily into one palm.

“Who are you supposed to be?”

“Um.” Amber kicks herself, the words of the godmothers’ handbook running across her eyelids. _Never stutter. Always be eloquent. You are an inspiration, a guardian, a guiding force in your godchild’s life._ “Er”— _Dammit_ —“My darling, I… am your fairy godmother!”

‘Darling’, of course, being Number Four on the list of recommended endearments for godchildren, located on page nine of chapter two.

Her goddaughter turns, blinking owlishly over one shoulder.

“We met at your naming ceremony?” the fairy attempts. “I don’t know if you remember; you were… smaller then.” When she receives no response, she turns to tut at the smoldering clothes. “Poor child. Was it your stepsisters?”

With a toss of her hair, Amber’s charge stands. “Er, yeah,” she sighs, “those two just won't leave me alone.”

“Well sweet pea…” her godmother singsongs, remembering endearment Number Eight. “I think _this_ ’ll cheer you right up!”

A _snap_ of Amber’s fingers summons her power, replacing the girl’s rags with a shower of shimmering sparkles. When the lights settle, a glorious gown hangs from the young noble’s shapely shoulders… and a slanted frown from her lips.

“Oh, wow.” Amber’s seen a lot of interesting reactions over the centuries, but _sarcasm_ is a new one. “Thanks, but blue isn't really my color. And this thing is _heavy_.”

She’s right, the godmother has to admit. That shade doesn’t flatter her skin tone at _all_. And Vernal is always saying that Amber needs to go easy on the ruffles.

“How about…”

 _Snap_.

“Ooh, daring, isn't it?” At least the girl is smiling now. “With the mask and all the… strappy bits. Does it come in red? Goes with my eyes.”

_Snap._

Amber almost applauds. “Stunning!” she cries. “You’re almost ready!”

“Almost—For what?”

“The Mistral Ball, of course.” The godmother props her hands on her hips. “You silly goose!” Endearment Number Fourteen-C.

The reaction is not quite what she’d hoped. “Right. That idiot prince’s shindig.”

“It’s the biggest event of the year!” Amber squawks. “Everyone’s going to be there!”

“Yeah, making eyes at the moron.” But the teenager glides toward the door, giving her skirts an experimental swish. “Hmm. What else have you got?”

Cheeks puffed with indignation, Amber follows her goddaughter into a small courtyard. _A coach, a coach… Ah-_ ha _!_

_Snap._

Her charge freezes mid-yawn, then starts to cough. “Whoof,” she hacks. “onion fumes.”

“Oh dear, oh dear.” Amber waves her hands. “My deepest apologies, sweetling”—Number Six—“I’ll just—”

“No, no!” The girl wipes her eyes. “This’ll do nicely. If I can park upwind of stepmother dearest…” Her grin has grown impish. “So is that all?”

_Snap. Snap. Snap._

“All but your loyal coachmen!” Amber trills, sweeping a hand over the trio of transmogrified rats. “Don’t let them near any cats. Or pantries. Or shiny objects.” All lessons she’s learned the hard way. “Actually, just keep them with the carriage.”

The teenager cocks her head. “Got it.”

“ _Et_ _voila_!” she concludes, catching her godchild’s eye. “You will go, won't you?”

With a shrug, the girl vaults into her bulbous, slightly eye-watering carriage. “Why not? Free food at these things, isn't there?”

“That’s the spirit!” As the rats-turned-footmen scrabble to their positions, Amber lifts off the cobbles with a flutter of gossamer wings. “And the prince…” she probes, still hopeful.

The coach starts to wobble away, gleaming and onion-domed. “Not really my thing,” says her godchild, leaning half out the window to shoot Amber a wink. “But if he happens to have a sister…”

The fairy nods her understanding before sketching a final—relieved—wave. “Good bye, Lady Sustrai!” she calls. “And good luck!”

As the carriage rattles off, Amber frowns, a niggling thought bobbing back to the surface of her mind. _There were quite a few gowns in that fireplace_ , she recalls, still gazing after her goddaughter. _Almost enough for two…_

But she dismisses the misgivings with a hard shake of her head. _Nonsense_ , Amber tells herself. _I’m just being paranoid._ She laughs aloud, ascending into the starlit sky. _As if Emerald would lie to me._

…

It turns out the prince _does_ have a sister. Half-sister, technically, but still quite the catch. Amber would normally be over the moon, but there’s something not quite right about the girl.

Well, young woman would be more accurate. She’s a few years Emerald’s senior, and considerably more… refined. _Yes_ , thinks the godmother, a tad uncharitably. _‘Refined’ is apt enough._ There’s no need to bring up words like ‘insidious’ or ‘conniving’. Or ‘creepy as heck’.

Maybe it’s the way she always knows when and where Amber will appear. Fairies aren’t used to being noticed, especially when they’re actively trying not to be. But the princess is always staring right at her with those intelligent yellow eyes, no matter how subtle the godmother’s approach.

To soothe the— _shame, guilt_ —regret of missing over a decade of her godchild’s life, Amber has been visiting the Sustrai manor almost weekly, more often than the handbook prescribes. Unfortunately, this risks encountering the princess should she visit for a romantic _rendez-vous_. Whenever they cross paths, the fairy feels like she’s being eyed through the bars of a birdcage.

Emerald, meanwhile, is smitten.

“Isn't she amazing?” gushes the girl, beaming up at her chamber’s dingy ceiling. She’s sprawled out on the threadbare rug, Amber shrunken down to perch on the single intact bedpost. “She gave me this.”

Amber raises an eyebrow, watching her goddaughter clutch the smoky glass shoe to her chest. “That’s… lovely?” she tries. Now, the fairy isn't one to judge. She’s known others who were quite fond of footwear—

“No!” scowls Emerald, face going as red as her irises. “Just as a token. Ya know, to prove that I’m really me.”

 _Ah, the mask_ , Amber recalls. “I see,” she hums aloud. “And have you spoken of the future?”

“I—I think she might ask me to run away together.”

“That is wonderful!” tinkles Amber, meaning every word. In the handbook, ‘passionate elopement’ is scored almost as high as ‘royal nuptials’, and since the step-princess stands no chance of inheriting, this is as good an outcome as any. “Is there anywhere particular you plan to go?”

Her goddaughter groans. “Anywhere but here.” In her hands, the shoe has been swapped for a knife which Emerald flings across the room to stick point-first in the wall beside several identical blades. “I need to get out of this house.”

Amber wholeheartedly agrees. That awful stepmother treats Emerald like a servant, and her offspring are no better. Were the fairy allowed to use her powers against humans, they would have been turned to footstools weeks ago.

She has to admit, even that eerie princess is better than this nest of avaricious vipers.

…

Amber has changed her mind. The princess is worse. So. Much. Worse. The older girl is a _horrid_ influence. Since they became involved, Emerald’s impish sense of humor has warped, turning to outright maliciousness. The godmother can't _believe_ her charge would do something like this!

“ _Quelle folie_!” she cries. “They could have been killed! If the neighbors hadn't installed that trampoline last week—”

“Those brats deserved it,” Emerald mutters, sullen. “If they hadn't chased me up there in the first place…” Her words trail off into mutinous mumblings.

As the green-haired girl sulks, her paramour snakes an arm across her shoulders. “I agree,” says the princess, silken voice as smooth as ever. “From what I’ve heard, it couldn’t have happened to two better people.”

Emerald’s godmother glares daggers at the young woman. “You put her up to this, didn’t you? Before you came into her life—”

“I was committing arson when you and I met,” Emerald blurts, a defiant jut to her chin.

Amber just shakes her head. She’d always _suspected_ that those hadn't been Emerald’s dresses in the fireplace, but that's a discussion for another time. “That was different,” she says out loud. “At least then, no one was being hurt. I’m _very_ disappointed in you, sweetheart.” The manual advocates use of endearments Thirteen or Four to soften rebukes.

But Emerald only curls further into her lover’s side, red eyes narrowing. “Fine!” spits the teenager. “Maybe you’d prefer one of my _sisters_.” Over the top of her head, the princess bares a triumphant smirk.

The fairy can do nothing but sputter, tiny fists trembling at her sides. _What did I do wrong?_ Amber’s godchild has met her princess! Her Happily Ever After should be right at her fingertips! If only said princess wasn’t the absolute _worst_.

The handbook had never prepared Amber for this.

“Come, Emerald.” The princess stands. “You can stay at the palace tonight.”

“I—I forbid you from going anywhere with _that girl_!” Amber hears herself shriek. “She’s turning you into a… a scoundrel! Forget running away together; she’s lucky I don’t change her into a—”

A scoff bursts from Emerald’s throat. “Scoundrel? Don’t act like you know anything about me, _Godmother_. Where were you when I lost my _actual_ family? When I had to choose between stealing and starving? When I was forced to clean until my fingers bled?”

With every word, Amber feels more small, unable to martial a response. _I—She—_

“And,” the girl goes on, panting slightly, “we aren’t planning on _running_ anywhere. Once we—Ow!”

She jumps as the princess pinches her side. “Loose lips, darling.” Sharp, golden eyes swing towards Amber, who wonders not for the first time if the princess has somehow read the godmothers’ handbook. “We don’t want _her_ spoiling our fun.”

“Yeah.” Emerald nods, face darkening as she turns back to her godmother. “Leave.”

“What?” The fairy blinks, mouth falling ajar. “But—”

One of her godchild’s sickle-bladed knives whizzes past to bury itself in the wardrobe. “Get OUT!” shouts Emerald. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want you here anymore! Just give up already!”

Amber flees through the window before the other blade can follow, shaking with not fear, but rage. She’s been ousted, undermined. As long as _that girl_ is in the picture, Emerald will never listen. She needs to fight back. And for that…

 _I need backup_.

…

“Whadda you mean, ‘backup’?” Vernal grumbles around a mouthful of bread.

With one finger, Amber prods a napkin toward her fellow fairy. “Weren’t you listening? That royal pain is corrupting my godkid! Short of storming into her castle and giving her father a stern talking-to, what can I do?”

“This princess isn't one of mine,” states the Spring Fairy, gesturing with one of her intricate blades. “Have you asked Summer and Winter?”

“Oh,” whines Amber, “you know what they're like this time of year.”

Her coworker sags on her rock. “Ugh. Right. So no intel. Guess blackmail is out.”

“That girl seems more like the one who _does_ the blackmailing,” the Autumn Fairy grumbles. “Isn't there anything you can do? You still haven't paid me back for the time you mixed up those twins.”

“Maybe…” Mid-sentence, Vernal rises and ducks back into her tent.

After a moment of waiting, Amber turns her gaze to the surrounding camp. It’s well-grown. Good distribution of foliage. Elegant branch placement. Vernal has gotten good at shaping these stockades over the past few decades. She clearly likes these humans, to stay with them so long. Some kind of tribe, if Amber’s remembering right. Good, law-abiding citizens, she’s sure.

“Here.” She turns toward Vernal’s voice and catches the staff thrown her way. It’s almost as long as she is tall, with a red crystal woven into one end and a white into the other. “The dust gives your powers a bit of a boost, and the whole thing can shrink or grow as you please. If it comes to a fight, don’t underestimate the importance of a good _whack_. Our magic can't do everything.”

“A stick and some advice?” sighs Amber. “And I always thought you were the impulsive one.”

A snort from Vernal. “Flatterer. That’s all the help you’re getting. I’ve got enough on my plate.”

Not long after, Amber flits into the sky, her friend’s words echoing up from the trees.

“Have fun storming the castle!”

…

Amber is _not_ having fun.

Chest heaving, the fairy drops to Lilliputian size and squeezes through an arrow slit. Once outside, she loops up to the parapet, hoping to gain some space to catch her breath.

“Took you long enough.” The sneer sends her heart leaping to her throat. _He’s here._

Ah, _merde._

It had all started earlier that evening, when the godmother had… just happened to be passing her godchild’s domicile. She’d overheard Emerald and that rotten princess murmuring sweet nothings beneath the eves, and nearly turned tail before sharpening her ears and realizing that said nothings were not sweet in the slightest.

“Don’t worry,” the royal had crooned. “I’ve found someone with the skills we need. He should be at the palace already.”

Which could have been innocuous enough, had it not been followed by, “Tomorrow, we will be queens.”

That had sent the godmother racing for the castle. She’s always happy when her charges rise to the top, but assassination is generally frowned upon by the fairy community. Human assassination, that is. They’re perfectly fine with offing one another.

Amber had beelined for the King’s chambers, arriving just in time to see the royal couple being menaced by a man with hair the color of hateful iron. A blast of wind from her miniature staff— _Thank you, Vernal_ —had knocked him back enough for his targets to flee, but left the godmother facing the assassin.

She’d quickly grown to full-scale, meeting his sword and spear with her new weapon. Soon, however, Amber had been unpleasantly surprised to find herself at a disadvantage. Indoors, her more impressive abilities would have risked bringing the castle down around their ears, restricting the fairy to fire and wind harnessed by her staff. What’s more, her opponent had displayed inhuman strength and speed, his skilled strikes putting her on the defensive.

Their skirmish had lasted several fraught minutes, Amber holding out until she had judged the King and Queen to be at a safe distance. That was when she had escaped through the arrow hole and up to the roof… where things are no better.

Well, a _little_ better. “Hah!” the godmother shouts, raising a hand to the cloudless sky. Lightning lances down a split second later, sending the assassin diving for cover—and blasting a chunk of stone from the battlements. _Oops_.

She follows up with a full-on funnel of flame from one end of her staff, but the man curls up against the tower’s side, upper body tucked behind his legs. When her fire washes over them, his trousers crumble to ash, revealing the metal below.

 _Iron_ , Amber only recognizes the material of the prosthetics as one lashes out, clipping her ankle and sending pure agony up her leg.

“Ssaah!” she hisses, shrinking down to withdraw.

It’s only the sudden size change that saves her from the arrow. Fragments of black glass scatter as the missile shatters against the stones, nearly cutting the godmother as she scrambles for altitude.

“Two on one, fairy.” The assassin is back on his lethal feet, circling to put Amber between him and the red-clad woman on the next tower.

 _That damned princess._ Another obsidian arrow is drawn in the noble’s bow, her weapon itself shaped from that same volcanic glass. The fair folk aren’t particularly vulnerable to the material, but those glass-tipped shafts are still dangerous for their ability to ignore any magic she puts in their path.

The godmother frowns. _I see_ her _,_ _but where is_ —

“Amber!” Emerald’s voice reaches her ears, muffled by distance and the castle walls. “Help!”

A tight corkscrew around the assassin discourages further arrows, giving Amber the cover she needs to slip down the side of the tower and back into the royal chambers. The castle is awake now, forcing her to dodge servants and soldiers alike as she searches for her godchild. One foot hangs limp as she flies; burned by iron, it won't heal fast.

“Emerald?”

“Amber!” The teenager stumbles around a corner. “She’s gone nuts! I should have believed you!”

 _Well it’s about time._ The fairy resizes herself just in time to catch Emerald as she trips. “I can get us away,” she promises, hiding a wince as her injured ankle wobbles. “Are you all right? Did they harm you?”

Wordlessly, the girl shakes her head, crimson eyes squeezed tight shut.

“Before we go,” says Amber, running a soothing hand down her charge’s arm, “is there anything you need?”

“Just _this_!”

The godmother sways back, watches the knife slash past with muted despair. She’d half expected the betrayal, but to have her fears confirmed is no comfort.

“I’m sorry,” Amber murmurs. “I failed you, my lady.”

A grimace twists her errant goddaughter’s features. “I’m not your _anything_.”

“You know what I can do,” sighs the fairy. “What did you and your friends expect to accomplish by…”

The moment after she trails off, two things happen. First: Emerald holds up the cord that, until one minute previous, had been tied around Amber’s neck. The cord that still holds her needle-sized staff. Second: The assassin hits her from behind with both cold metal feet, tearing a scream from her lips as she is borne to the floor.

Eyes flaring with energy, the Autumn Fairy throws back a hand, slamming her assailant with a hammer of wind. He hits the stone wall with a _crunch_ , weapons falling from his hands as Amber whirls—

Just in time for the arrow to sprout from her breast instead of her back. Lips part in a silent cry as the godmother crumples, pain setting her nerves afire. The archer stalks into view behind Emerald, yellow eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“I knew she’d turn up.” The princess strokes the other girl’s arm, fingers pale against Emerald’s darker skin. “You did well, sweetheart.”

As she tries and fails to rise, Amber spares a moment to grieve for her godchild. Even if she can't see it yet, this woman is going to chew her up and spit her out. Possibly literally.

The princess slips her bow onto one shoulder and struts closer, drawing something from the small of her back. A twisted rod comes into view, shaped from black metal and emanating a sickly, draining aura.

 _No_. She recognizes it right away. Any fairy would. “No!” her voice spikes with terror. “No, please! Em—”

As the wand touches her face, Amber sees her goddaughter look away.

…

Emerald stares at the crystal. At Amber. The fairy can’t speak, can't feel, can't move, but she can glare back at the green-haired girl.

For all the good it does her. Glaring is not nearly as effective when one has no face to glare with.

“Is she…” Her former godchild can't even finish her question, eyes darting to the woman at her side.

The princess pats her cheek, rolling the wand—Amber’s prison—between slender fingers. “The fairy is in no pain, sweetling,” she purrs. Endearment Number Six, Amber registers dully. “She is merely… harnessed for use. The King may still live, but now we have all the power we need.”

Amber almost screams as she is hooked to the woman’s belt, providing a perfect, torturous view as Emerald leans in for a kiss.

But her lips are met by her paramour’s finger, the older girl sparing her a look that could be considered tender in the right light. “Not now, angel. Now, we may finally abandon this place. Leave this kingdom, and start anew.”

 _Angel_. Amber’s nonexistent blood runs cold, horror rising in her phantom gut. Endearment Number One. _That’s one coincidence too many. She really_ has _read the handbook_. _But how?_

“Finally. Right.” Crestfallen, Emerald moves to their fallen assassin. “Get _up_. No sleeping on the job.”

The young man moans, flopping onto his back. “Help. I can't… I can't feel my legs.”

None too gently, her boot meets his ribs. “Up! We’re leaving. You can—”

“Yes.” The princess glances up and down the hall, then starts to walk. “Both of you, come. We have much to do.”

Emerald hurries to match the taller woman’s stride. “Both of us?” she ventures. “I thought we—the two of _us_ , I mean—were going to—”

“Mercury has his uses.”

Despite her betrayal, Amber still seethes as her goddaughter sags. Imagines reaching from her crystalline prison and throttling this snake of a princess. And realizes, with mounting horror, that she can do nothing else. That she may _never_ do anything else.

In the land of the bodied, Emerald straightens, shoulders squaring. “Wait,” she calls. “Ash, I think we need to t—”

The princess cuts her off with the flick of a hand. “ _I_ think I need a new name,” she muses, barely looking at the other girl. “Something a little more… appropriate.”

Amber feels her world shift as the woman draws her wand. Golden eyes fill the captive’s view, a ghost of a smile on the princess’s lips as she stares into the gem.

“Call me Cinder.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Part I (of II) of the grand finale! And my personal favorite interlude: Mercury's story.


	7. The End Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> General Ironwood reveals all!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The longest chapter of this piece, at close to 15,000 words. But boy do those words get put to use.

**BEGINNING OF THE END (Blake)**

“Your Highness!” The head of the Resistance snaps to his feet, tin arm moving in a salute. “Sorry, Your Highness _es_.”

Mouth hanging ajar, Weiss turns on her sister. “Did you know about this?”

“Did I know about my closest mentor’s plan to unite the sparks of resistance, depose our father and place a more worthy candidate on our kingdom’s throne?” Winter looks away. “Possibly.”

“I didn’t do it alone.” Ironwood bows to the gathered representatives. Blake recognizes several of them, and even receives a nod from Saber, a veteran of her parents’ White Fang days. “But only recently did we gain hope for a painless transition.”

The mannequin coughs into a wooden fist. “Relatively painless.”

“As bloodless as possible,” agrees the General. “Now, this intelligence was first hinted at several years ago, brought to my attention by a certain wizard. Unfortunately, he disappeared without a trace shortly after, before we could confirm. Because of his… unique state of being, locating him proved extremely difficult.” Ironwood smiles, the metal plate winking on his brow. “It was actually Lord Schnee’s forces that recently located the magic mirror in which he was trapped.”

“He doesn’t know what he has,” scoffs the fox on his left. “Using Master Ozpin as a glorified crystal ball.”

“With my help,” the general goes on, “the Resistance managed to infiltrate an elite team into Castle Schneeballschlacht. Though unable to remove the looking glass, they managed to ask a handful of vital questions. From this we learned”—he pauses dramatically—“that Jacques Schnee, Supreme Ruler of all Atlas, is not, technically, a king!”

Blake feels the others pause beside her, digesting this revelation. Then:

“What happened to your arm?” blurts Ruby.

“Why wasn’t I invited?” Ilia demands.

“Castle _what_?” snickers Yang.

“Explain!” Weiss is loudest of them all. “You don’t mean to imply that the Schnee family—”

Winter’s knuckle bounces off her head with an audible _thwack_. “Silence, you boob! All of you! Let the General finish.”

“Thank you. Jacques has claimed titles and duties not of his station,” Ironwood intones. “By fundamental Atlas Law, having merely married into the royal family, the man is—at best—a prince. He has taken great pains to conceal this from the court, even removing documents from the royal library.”

Blake slowly realizes that her companions are giving her an odd look. Ruby, then Yang, and finally Weiss turn away from their new allies to stare.

“What?” she hisses.

“You’re _grinning_ ,” whispers Yang. “Really wide. It’s… pretty unnerving.”

 _Oh, so I am_. But Blake can't seem to stop. This is, after all, the best news she’s heard all year. A crack in Lord Schnee’s self-righteous crusade, a tool these rebels are poised to use. Clearly thinking along the same lines, Weiss returns a grim smile of her own before angling back toward Ironwood.

“Under the same ordinances, his position is forfeit should an appropriate heir present themselves,” the man continues while Blake tries to regain control of her cheeks.

Weiss leans closer. “Define ‘appropriate’.”

“Possessing sound mind and body, of the royal bloodline, and at least eighteen years of age.”

The younger princess frowns. “Eighteen? Surely you mean twenty-one. Father always informed me…”

Silently, he shakes his head.

“But then Winter would have qualified when she turned—” Weiss stops cold, lips curling into a frown. “She was sent away before her eighteenth birthday.”

Her sister lays a hand on her shoulder. “But I believe yours is fast approaching. Next week, wasn’t it?”

For the first time, Blake sees Weiss at a loss for words. “Why bother with this at all?” the werecat challenges in her place. “You, General, clearly have the means and opportunity to simply seize the kingdom if you so choose.”

Ironwood only looks puzzled. “Atlas without a ruler?”

“Doesn’t sound right,” calls one of the assembled rebels.

“The Law must be adhered to,” Winter sniffs.

“And keeping the established system intact will allow for a smoother transition of power,” adds Weiss, regaining her voice.

The fox sighs. “Well, there is that.”

“I have proposed,” announces the General, “that on the princess’s birthday, we enter the Castle and escort her to the throne room, where she can officially claim the throne.”

“Get her across the board, you mean,” ribs Yang. “Like chess! Pawn reaches the other side, becomes Queen?”

Weiss glares. “I am no one’s pawn.”

“It’s not like chess—” begins Ironwood.

“It is a _bit_ , though.” Ruby grins around the table. “Castles, kings, queens. Rooks.” She brushes her crow-shaped uncle under the chin. “And dragons.”

The general raises a hand. “Be that as it may—Hold on, _dragons_? There is no ‘dragon’ piece in chess.”

“Sure there is,” she insists. “The ones that can fly over other pieces and move in wiggly lines.”

This has Yang’s fingerprints all over it. When Blake glances over, the blonde’s innocent expression only confirms her suspicions.

“You mean the knight?” an armored rebel asks.

“Knights are useless,” the dragon scoffs. “I could take a dozen knights in my sleep. With both hands tied behind my back.”

“Why, you—”

“I prefer _bagh chal_ ,” interject the werecat before things can get out of hand. “The only pieces it has are tigers and donkeys”—she stifles a smile as Weiss jumps—“No, goats. My mistake; tigers and goats.”

“ _Senet_?” a rebel offers.

“Backgammon!” croaks another.

“Please.” Ironwood’s voice rings out above them all. “We must be focused. Fox, if you would?”

“ _Mancala_ —Ahem.” The red-furred revolutionary clears his throat. “Yes,” he takes up the thread, taking a pointer in his mouth to sweep over the map that covers half the table. “While a diversionary force draws the Atlesian air fleet’s attention _here_ , the insertion team will be deposited _here_. That approach should provide a straight shot to the palace from the landing zone.

“If all goes well, our agents on the inside can offer support,” he continues. “Including the General, who will do what he can to divert forces from our path. Of course, he can't stop them all.”

“You _will_ meet resistance,” concurs Ironwood. “But casualties will—Brothers willing—be kept to a minimum. Our goal is clear.”

The wooden woman to his right holds up a hand. “What do we want?” she cheers, shortly joined by several others.

“A united Atlas!”

“Regulated working conditions!”

“Reasonably priced dust!”

“And a hard-boiled egg!”

The room turns as one.

“What?” says Ruby, stomach rumbling in the sudden silence. “I missed breakfast.”

 

**BAD LUCK CHARM (Ruby)**

“Don’t go,” Ruby begs.

“Sorry, kiddo.” Her uncle leans against the ship’s mast, eyes on the passing clouds. “Someone’s got to set things up in case everything goes sideways.”

The werewolf pouts. She can't help it. Uncle Qrow has always been her favorite adult, much cooler than any of Dad’s litter of brothers and sisters. He helped her get the parts for Crescent Rose, usually takes her side in squabbles with Yang, and—speak of the dragon. Ruby sees her sister’s gleaming locks skulking across the deck.

“Oh, don’t say that, Uncle Qrow.” At the blonde’s silent gestures, Ruby snaps back to her conversation. “You’re my good luck charm! We found you, and everyone showed up like _poof_!”

As she flutters her fingers, he runs a hand through his hair, laughing softly. “May seem so right now, but I am no one’s blessing. I’ll just braA-CAW!”

His head suddenly sprouts feathers, lips morphing to a black beak as Yang jabs at his back with pinpoint precision.

“It worked!” Both sisters double over with laughter, Ruby leaning into her sibling’s side. She plans to stick close to Yang from now on. Can't let her sister get into _too_ much trouble, even if she has a cool replacement dragon-arm.

The same goes for Weiss and Blake. At least while they’re all on the same boat, Ruby’s not letting any of them out of her sight! Except Weiss, who she’s already lost.

“Vernal said it would,” the werecat’s voice comes from above, drawing Ruby’s gaze to where she and Captain Sun perch lazily on the rigging.

“Very funny,” growls Qrow, feathers bristling. “You know I’m stuck like this now, right?”

Yang pales. “Really? I didn’t mean—”

“Nah.” His face pops back, grinning wickedly. “But that’ll teach you to prank your poor, defenseless uncle.”

“You _are_ getting on in years,” agrees Ruby.

The spy’s smile vanishes. “Now, I never said—”

“Is that a gray hair?” Yang squints at their uncle’s head.

“The hell it is!”

“You can see more from up here,” calls Sun. Like his namesake, the pirate is ever-beaming, a steep contrast to the nagual beside him. “Bald spot ho!”

“ _The hell you can_.” Realizing how badly he’s outnumbered, Qrow stalks off to join Ironwood on the upper deck. “Fine! I see where I’m not wanted,” he calls over one shoulder. “No respect…” The rest of his words dissolve into grumbles that sound suspiciously like _“Back in my day.”_

Wiping a final happy tear from her eye, Ruby pivots on one booted heel. “I’m off to find Weiss,” she announces. “Anyone know where she is?”

“Below,” Sun informs her, and the huntress-in-training sets off. Her quarry actually emerges from the forward hatch just as Ruby bends to open it, beaning her in the forehead and drawing a wail from her lips.

“Owww!”

“Watch where you’re going!” It seems completely backwards that _Weiss_ is yelling at _her_ , but at least this time the Ice Queen is quick to melt.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I’ve just been trying to talk some sense into Winter…”

As the white-haired girl throttles empty space, Ruby bounces on her toes. “About what?” she asks. “The plan?”

“About our parts in it!” blurts Weiss. “She is clearly the superior choice for ruler, but she _refuses_ to present a claim. I can't—”

Ruby pats her arm. “I bet you’ll be a good queen.”

“I would be _phenomenal_ ,” the princess sniffs, but she does seem a fraction mollified. “As I was going to say: I can't understand my sister.”

“Now that’s a familiar feeling.” The werewolf giggles. “Once, Yang—”

“My ears are burning!” Ruby jumps as her sister squeezes between them, Blake appearing on Weiss’s other side. “Are we there yet?”

The princess only makes a halfhearted attempt to wriggle from under Yang’s arm. “Soon. Passing through this canyon should bring us within sight of the Capital.”

“And the other airships at the rendezvous point,” adds Blake. She’s spent the last few days of their trip bouncing between members of the various resistances, piecing together all she can.

“Why _are_ we all in airships?” wonders Ruby. “They’re quicker, but what if we're seen?”

Weiss gives her an odd look. “Well, we _will_ need them to get to the Capital.”

When Ruby’s mouth opens for a follow-up query, it sticks that way. For they have reached the end of the canyon, soaring out over the edge of a verdant forest. The tops of several aircraft can be seen among the trees, and looming in the distance is what can only be the Capital.

“It _flies_?” The huntress-in-training feels Yang’s hand grasp her cloak and realizes she’s half-hanging over the front rail. “Since when?” Amity Colosseum had been one thing, but an _entire city_? She can't wait to get closer.

“I thought it was common knowledge,” says Weiss.

“ _Someone_ ate the Atlas chapter in our… atlas,” Yang mutters.

Ruby wilts. “Sorry.”

“I suppose it’s plausible that this interesting and topically relevant factoid just… never came up.” Blake sounds dubious.

“Ah, well,” comes from above. “That’s life for ya.” Ruby nearly slips off the airship. _How long has Uncle Qrow been up there?_ “I’m off, kids. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” three voices chime.

Yang, meanwhile, lets her head loll back. “Already?” she pouts. Ruby wonders how many more pranks will now go wasted.

“You're in good hands.”

“What, the General’s?”

Their uncle stands, one hand braced on a spar. “Nope.” He smiles down at the quartet. “Your own. Stay focused, keep each other safe, and try not to have too much fun without me!” He steps onto thin air, and an eyeblink later, a pair of black wings flap into the clouds.

And _that’s_ why he’s Ruby’s favorite.

 

**A MUCH NEEDED TALK (Weiss)**

Weiss wants to be Queen. Of _course_ she wants to be Queen, who wouldn’t?

 _Winter, obviously_ , she reminds herself. The memory only intensifies her quiet panic, the girl’s night watch giving her plenty of time to think back. Behind her, the rebel camp snores, fires smoldering between tents, burrows, and paddocks. Their airships are moored low, a flock of masts bobbing gently as hammocks in the chill night air.

“I cannot do this,” her sister had said. “And I will not do this. I would be ill-suited to the throne. As much as Father can be an obstinate fool, he was right about that.”

At first Weiss had just stared, stupefied. For so long—even before her recent exile—she’d harbored hope that finding Winter would solve… well, everything.

In the privacy of their cabin, Winter had cupped her face with both hands. “Weiss,” she had murmured. “I’ve been isolated for the better part of a decade. And even before that, I was never… the best with people.”

“And I _am_?” Weiss had screeched. “You're the strong one! Ironwood and the army love you—”

“While the courtiers despise me.” Like the rest of her words, Winter’s retort had been uncharacteristically gentle. “As I do them.” Then she had paused to comb back her hair, straighten, and look Weiss in the eye. “Sister, I love you dearly, but sometimes you can be frightfully stupid.”

Her “I beg your pardon?” had been automatic, drawing a thin smile from her sister.

“You have thrived on your own,” she had gone on. “The allies you’ve made, the places you’ve been, the lengths you’ve gone to…”

“Anyone could have done the same,” Weiss had objected.

“And you’ve even grown more modest! Sister, just look at the Amitola girl. She has tried to do you in multiple times, and yet she saved your neck in the arena.”

“I still don’t trust her,” the younger princess had muttered. “Besides, that was only due to Blake’s influence.”

Winter had not been swayed. “Still, the doing of one of _your_ friends.”

“We’re not f…” But the routine reply had fallen flat. “I promised her aid, that’s all.”

“And you can make good on that promise.” Winter had continued to press. “As ruler. The rebels can be made allies. Merely show them you can be trusted; you're halfway there already.”

“Think of what’s best for the Schnee name!” had been Weiss’s last, desperate ammunition…

Which Winter had immediately turned against her with a truly _obnoxious_  “I am. And you won't be alone. Your team, the General, Whitley, if we can unglue his lips from father’s arse.”

Despite her startled laugh, Weiss had not missed an important omission. “But not you.”

“I have been very selfish,” Winter had said in lieu of an answer. “When I first escaped my prison, I fled.”

“I hardly blame you for that.” Weiss’s words had not sounded as convincing as she’d hoped.

“As my soon-to-be sovereign—”

“Stop that.”

“—I beg you, allow me to be selfish once again.” Winter’s smile had been bittersweet. “I long to see the world, sister. Ruling has never been my dream.” _As it has been yours_ , the elder Schnee very pointedly hadn't said aloud.

“Feel ready?” In the present, Blake’s low inquiry seems to come out of nowhere. The princess has to look twice, then thrice before she identifies the nagual’s dark form amongst the shadows.

“Not quite.” Weiss owes her that much honesty at least.

The panther sits back on her haunches, head tilting. “Meaning?”

“There is no guarantee we will be successful. And even if we are, I must admit some apprehension toward… what comes after.”

“What comes after is you making good on your word,” purrs Blake. “Paying me back for all the trouble you’ve put me through.” Her mock irritation draws an unwilling smile to Weiss’s lips. “I want to see those mines refitted with my own two eyes.” When she blinks said eyes, the werecat almost vanishes, turning pure black from head to tail.

“As long as you're there to see it.”

“Was that an insult, Schnee? Or—”

“Yes.” The princess cuts her off with a toss of her hair. “That’s all it was.”

Blake goes silent for several minutes. Then, “Happy birthday,” she says, almost too quiet to hear.

Weiss sits up. Had midnight passed already?

“Yang wanted to throw you a party,” continues her companion. “I thought we talked her out of it, but then I saw Ruby trying to hide a cake in her pack. Consider yourself warned.”

“Thank you.” _For everything_. “I know this quest hasn’t been easy for you either.”

The nagual stares up at Remnant’s broken moon. “It hasn’t,” she agrees. “But now… I feel like things might finally be changing.”

 

**SUBTLETY IS OUT (Blake)**

Blake shivers with excitement. Excitement, and a heaping portion of nerves.

Any minute now, the rebel airfleet will be making their move. According to Ironwood, the resulting redeployment protocols will leave a gap through which Sun’s craft can deposit the ground team. Any m—

“That’s our cue!” The captain collapses his spyglass, one arm swinging above his golden head. “Take us up, Neptune! Dust batteries to power, turbines to speed!”

With a plaintive creaking, the ship rises. Propellers blurring, deck shaking beneath their feet, the S.S. Sun hurtles upward toward the chink in the Atlesian defenses. Like its master, the aircraft is loud but capable, agile enough to slip in and hover low among the buildings.

Blake breathes steadily until they’re through, then leaps over the side between Ruby and Weiss, Yang hot on their heels. In panther form, she darts ahead as the other half of their squad disembarks.

Two of Velvet’s friends—the fashionable homunculus called Coco and the jolly green golem named Yatsu—are the rebellion’s picks for this mission, sent to act as muscle, support, and general decoys. The rabbit herself, with her studied knowledge of the Capital’s layout, is safely tucked into her jade comrade’s breastplate, two protruding ears swiveling back and forth as they land.

Winter drops down last, sending the ship off with an imperious wave to Sun. Blake, pausing to look back, sees the faunus salute so badly the princess winces, the captain’s laughter trailing off as his ship loops back over the side.

Keeping to cover, the eight of them move down the deserted street with care. In the event of an attack—i.e. right now—the Capital goes into lockdown, something that helps the rebels as much as the guards. All goes well until they reach the looming wall of the palace itself.

Or, more specifically, its rear gate. The entrance is heavily fortified, a matte white barbican protruding around the oaken doors. The wood of the gatehouse gleams dully as they approach, until…

“Halt at once!” cries a voice.

Safely ensconced in an alley, Blake watches Ruby and Yang look up, then from side to side.

“Hello-oo,” the younger girl calls. “Who’s there?”

“Cheek!” trills the voice. “Sheer cheek and impudence!”

Ruby looks down. “Ooh!”

There stands a woman dressed in a white military uniform, size XXXS. “How dare you ignore I, Atlas’s gatekeeper!” she cries. “Guardian of our glorious—Your Royal Highness!”

The soldier snaps into a sharp bow at the sight of Weiss. But at the sight of Winter, Blake could swear she sees a tear in the smaller woman’s eye.

“Lady Winter!”

“Major Cordovin.” The werecat cocks her head as the elder Schnee smiles down at the gatekeeper. “A pleasure as always.”

The operative bounces on booted toes, hands clasping by her cheeks. “I see you two have come to your senses. Oh, how glad your father will be to hear of your return.”

“There’s no need to send word,” Weiss leans around her sister. “We’ll… tell him ourselves.”

“Alas, too late. I’m sure word’s already been sent.” Blake narrows her eyes, watching the major flick a dismissive hand. “Now, I am honored to allow your ladyships’ entrance through the gates, but your, ah, companions must remain without.”

“Without what?” Yang leads, grinning down at the woman.

“Without entry.” The guardian takes a curt step back. “And don’t think I don’t see you lurking there, Beast!”

Blake blinks as a short, uniformed arm swings up, pointing to a spot several feet to her left. _Close enough_ , the nagual grants, padding out to stand by Weiss.

“I would die before allowing such characters through Castle Schneeballschlacht’s back door!” announces their obstructor. “I am the protector of our nation’s esteemed rear!”

Ruby snickers.

“From the bottom of my heart, I have sworn never to expose the royal backside to trespassers,” she goes on. “Never shall I allow them to crack these walls and plunder the booty within.”

“Does she ‘ear herself?” the panther’s ears turn toward Velvet’s whisper.

“I’m split down the middle,” Yang mutters from the corner of her mouth. “She’s certainly a real gasbag, but the lady seems too earnest to be cheeky.”

Still grinning, her little sister sighs. “Aw, bummer.”

The werecat shuts out as much of the wise-assery as possible, focusing on Cordovin as she changes tack.

“Never shall such fairy-tale filth set foot into our inner sanctum!” spits the soldier, and Blake hears herself snarl.

“Hey now,” drawls Coco. “That’s just not on.”

Ruby frowns while Yang growls, smoke trickling from her ears.

“Hah!” spits the major, unrepentant. “I recognized _that_ one immediately!” Surprise surprise, she’s pointing at Blake. “A known member of the White Fang”— _Former member_ , the shapeshifter corrects—“from a long line of repeat offenders!”

The latter makes the nagual look up. “What?”

“There have been _numerous_ official charges directed toward the Beasts of the Royal Wood,” says the triumphant Cordovin. “Daylight robbery! Tax evasion! Destruction of Atlas property! I possess a notarized list of complaints going back decades!”

And Blake has certainly done little so far to bolster her family’s name. She feels Weiss bristle on her behalf, but nudges a furred shoulder into the princess’s hip before she can give the soldier a piece of her mind.

Sensing the tension, Cordovin paces briskly backwards, retreating into the low shack of the gatehouse. The door that clangs shut after her possesses one narrow window… located several inches above the diminutive operative’s cap. However, around waist height, there has also been installed a small shutter, which _clacks_ back now to reveal the woman’s scowling features.

“Never, I say!” She clears her throat. “Now, would Your Highnesses care to enter?”

“Options?” hisses Weiss.

Ruby grasps Crescent Rose. “Well, you're not leaving us behind!”

Meanwhile, Yang looks at Yatsu, who turns toward the gate itself. Both of them nod, then start forward.

“Hostile movement!” screams Cordovin, voice echoing up a speaking tube to the ramparts. “Pull the lever!”

“YES MA’AM,” someone shouts back. Then, with a great grinding and scraping, the barbican… stands up.

Blake hears Ruby squeal.

“It’s a giant pair of robot pants!”

Well, now _that’s_ wedged into the werecat’s cranium. She and the others fall back as the machine rises, an ivory titan tearing free of the wall. Two crenellated arms unfold from the adjacent battlements, the left one lowering to lock into the massive doors themselves.

Ruby is still gazing upward, spellbound. “How can it even move?” she enthuses. “Its weight alone should—”

A shock travels through the ground as the titanic shield crashes down, planting itself before the castle’s entrance. As the figure takes a broad, defensive stance, its steps shake the cobbles, the gatehouse now serving as an oversized foot.

“Oh, _please_ let me!” Yang’s gleeful cry rings across the plaza. “Always wanted to fight one of these.”

“You’ve always wanted to fight an animated doorframe,” states Winter.

The dragon is already starting to smoke, mismatched fists clenching and unclenching. “As giant robots go, it could be hotter, but it’ll do.”

“No.” Blake bounds over, keeping one eye on the massive machine. “You need to keep going. All of you.” Twenty claws unsheathe to scrape against the ground, sparks trailing in their wake. “Not to brag, but… she probably hates me most.”

“Not all of us,” calls Coco. “Yatsu and I are here to make some noise, and I can't see anything noisier than this.” She unslings the modified siege bow from her shoulder, wooden limbs hefting the oversized weapon with ease. Beside her, Yatsu pounds his fists together, eliciting a pout from Yang.

“Can't I—”

“You need to look after them,” the nagual rolls amber eyes toward their teammates. “And you two need to look after her,” she tells Ruby in lower tones before turning to Weiss. “Go, Ice Queen. I’ll keep her busy.”

“Such arrogance!” Cordovin appears atop the mechanized chunk of castle, enclosed by a protective cage.

As her harsh tones echo through the streets, windows crack open, curious eyes appearing in the gaps.

“You dare compare yourself to the pride of the Atlas military? Behold my Colossus,” roars the major, “latest and greatest exhibit of our might! Bleeding edge robotics,” she boasts, “assembled from the finest components our ovens could bake!”

Weiss frowns. “Did she say—”

The Colossus flexes its arms, and cracks appear across the alabaster surface. Before its flabbergasted audience, the machine’s white crust flakes away, the fragments crumbling to powder as they fall.

“Cower!” cackles Cordovin. “Before the product of Atlesian ingenuity!”

Bit by bit, rich russet panels are revealed, the wrong texture—Blake takes a deep sniff—and scent for wood.

“Lament!” the soldier shrieks. “As your own unnatural ingredients are harnessed against you!”

The sweet-smelling titan stands tall, now entirely brown save for the icing accents that dot its surface.

Ruby licks her lips. “Ohhh.” The werewolf’s groan is near sinful. “That’s one _big_ cookie.”

“Move!” orders Winter, going even paler than usual.

Velvet hops into Yang’s arms before the blonde, her sister, and both Schnees scatter, breaking around the robot to dart through the _gaping hole it had left in the walls_. Another testament to the forethought so often lacking in Atlesian engineering.

“And run, Run, RUN!” bawls the major, undeterred. “As fast as you can!”

Beside Blake, Coco pushes up her sunglasses, blinks hard, and sighs.

“Never been much of a gingerbread fan.”

 

**BEST DAY EVER (Yang)**

This has got to be the best day ever. Things have been… crazy since Yang and her sister joined Weiss and Blake, but now the gang’s all back together—or at least they had been before Blake had insisted on being all _cool_ and _noble_ and _getting-to-fight-a-gingerbread-giant_. Now Ruby’s back at her side, they're going to punch that fake &^%* of a king in his stupid face, and her scaled arm is _not_ twitching. _Not_ , you hear?

The dragon glowers at her insubordinate limb before glancing back at the now-distant werecat. Yang’s sure her friend will be fine; dodging that Colossus can't be harder than dealing with the dragon herself, and Blake had certainly managed that.

Refocusing, Yang ushers her teammates into Castle Schneeble-something through the nearest service entrance. The blonde herself is being directed by the chocolate rabbit on her arm, Velvet’s accented guidance leading them through the castle’s least-traveled passages until…

“Roight.” The bunny hops to the floor after several minutes of jogging. “We’ll need ta cut through the great hall. If we’re quick n’ quiet, shouldn’t be any trouble.” Her paws point to Weiss and Winter. “Hoods up, princesses.”

Bemused, they obey. Yang, Ruby, and the now-absent Blake have donned appropriate colors for this adventure; more muted, but still stylish. The dragon’s scaled leathers are now largely black and white, accents of her preferred gold begrudgingly allowed by Weiss. _“We can at least try to blend in,”_   Her Majesty had said. Ruby had been able to don Summer’s cloak as usual, the enchanted cape merely morphing to be as white as Winter’s.

Of course, the only alterations to Weiss’s own monochrome dress are a few bands of black and the addition of a jacket bearing her family's snowflake crest. Both are now hidden below her graying traveling cloak, its ragged hem fluttering as they slip through the deserted dining chamber—

“Well, well, well.” A man in robes of black, yellow and purple stands by the head table, hands folded behind his back. “What a surprise.” Despite his words, he looks anything but. “Lady Weiss. Lady Winter. And… guests.”

“Oh, who’s _this_ drongo,” groans Velvet as the princesses skid to a halt.

“Arthur,” Winter says.

“Doctor Watts,” completes Weiss. “Father’s head enchanter.”

Yang cracks her knuckles. “He much of a fighter?” She’s going to beat up _something_ today, dammit.

“Afraid not,” calls Watts. “But I wouldn’t get any ideas, were I you…”

Something wraps around the dragon’s waist. Razor-thin, it coils tight and _yanks_ her off her feet, releasing an instant later to fling her against a wall.

“I present the prototype M-3-4-7 Electric Nixie!” the enchanter flings out his hands like a used chariot salesman. “Or, if you _must_ , the ENi.”

While Yang’s head stops spinning, she focuses on her teammates’ words.

“I don’t see any electricity,” drawls Winter.

“Nixies are water spirits,” Weiss supplies, sounding proud of the knowledge. “And I can’t spy any of that, either.”

“ _Woooah_ ,” Ruby chimes in, voice awed. “But… I dunno about that name. ‘Enny’ doesn’t sound great.”

Weiss frowns. “I thought he said ‘Ennui’.”

“Sal-u-tations!” a fresh voice reaches the dragon’s ringing ears. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all, insert-names-here.”

“Ruby Rose,” gurgles Ruby Rose. Her vision still clearing, Yang can practically hear the stars in her eyes. _This invention must be something special._ “Nicetomeetyoutoo.”

Hopping to her feet, Yang provides a belated two cents of her own. “Yeah, what kind of name is ‘Any’?” Her lilac eyes come to focus on the enchanter’s creation—which looks an awful lot like a pale, freckled girl with copper curls and a gray robe. Mechanical joints are visible at her knees and elbows, and hinges frame her smiling mouth.

“What about Penny?” Ruby suggests, turning beseeching silver eyes on Watts.

“M347 _Prototype_ Electric Nixie,” the enchanter mutters to himself. “PENi. That… _is_ better. Penny will do,” he allows, gaze dropping to his creation as she waves to Yang. “Now, Penny, seize them!”

“I’ll do my best!” the puppet promptly replies, voice bright. Her emerald eyes snap toward Yang, apparently judging her the biggest threat. “You sure are heavy!” she informs her. “You can't be human.”

“Thanks.” The blonde grins back, then shoots up to dragon size and snaps up the automaton in a single gulp.

Ruby wails. “Penny! Nooo!”

“Is that all, Arthur?” wonders Winter.

“Good onya!” cheers the bunny by Weiss’s foot.

The junior princess is the only one to pick up on the dragon’s agonized expression. Yang winces as her teeth are suddenly cranked apart with irresistible force, a pair of feet braced on her lower jaw. _What on Remnant is this puppet made of?_ she fumes. _It_ _tastes like wood, but I think I just chipped a tooth._

“Fan-tastic!” chirps Penny, holding her mouth open with one hand. “You seem like a lot of fun, insert-name-here.”

“Ang Ao Ong,” manages the blonde.

“A pleasure to meet you, Yang Xiao Long!” The puppet points her free hand, and something silvery flies from her sleeve. The single-edged blade sinks easily into the stone wall before Penny is abruptly yanked from between Yang’s teeth.

As the wooden girl glides through the air, Yang stretches her jaws, holding up one foreleg as her companions make to attack. “Leave this one to me,” the golden lizard insists. “I doubt we’ll find another room this size, and she can't hurt—”

Another of Penny’s seemingly self-propelled swords stabs her in her recently regrown paw.

“Ow!” The dragon swings her head around to where her opponent floats in midair, halfway between Yang and the wall. “Rude.” She holds up her skewered hand, trying to nip out the blade with her teeth.

“My sincerest apologies,” Penny says before zipping toward her weapon and clocking the dragon in the snout. The blow hits with more far more power than the puppet’s waifish frame would suggest, and Yang lets herself be sent flying, curving neatly in midair to hover among the eaves of the great hall.

“Just can't keep your hands off, can you?” The lizard winks an armor-lidded eye. “I don’t blame ya.”

As Penny flings more of her swords into the rafters, Yang sees Weiss stamp one heeled foot. “Stop _flirting_ with the mad enchanter’s prototype death machine!”

“ _Adorable_ prototype death machine,” she corrects just to see the princess steam. “What are you still doing here? You heard me; go on, get!”

As they get gone, following Velvet through another side door, Watts watches them go. Apart from a spirited twiddling of his dark moustache, he does nothing to stop them. “You do them no favors,” he tells her. “When the young heiress reaches her throne, I doubt she will like what she finds…”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Yang guides her golden shape about the hall’s upper reaches, tail flicking as she eyes the enchanter.

He sniffs, nose wrinkling. “It means you are in over your head, young dragon.” His face comes alive with a gleeful light, the first real interest Watts has displayed. “And I can't wait to learn what makes you tick.”

With a soft _zing_ , Penny rises to Yang’s level, a brace of blades haloing her form.

“I’m combat ready!” she announces, and their fight begins in earnest.

 

**ONE THING (Ruby)**

Their party has already been cut down to half. Ruby mulls this over as they hurry through the castle, ducking down side passages and into vacant rooms to avoid its usual occupants. Between Ironwood’s aid and Velvet’s photographic recollection of the palace’s layout, the quartet is able to evade discovery while they continue on.

As Ruby jogs, Velvet cradled in her arms and the Sisters Schnee at her heels, Winter speaks up. “I remember the way from here,” she says. “It is not far.” Both sisters have grown ever grimmer as their destination nears. By now, their faces are cold and hard as marble, their hands clenched at her sides.

“Father will be there,” murmurs Weiss, explaining their mounting anxiety in four terse words.

“But so will the General,” Ruby pipes up.

“An’ hopefully not too many guards,” adds Velvet. “If the boss’s done his job right.”

In a stroke of luck, he has. When they march into the throne hall, the only ones within are Ironwood and not-King Schnee.

“Where are my men?” the latter is shrieking from his royal high chair. “My kingdom—my stronghold is under assault! I demand protection! As your king, I _require_ protection!”

“Most are responding to the… incidents at the rear gate and great hall,” the general replies, voice soothing. “I assure you, my lord, everything is going as planned.”

The Schnee patriarch is not soothed in the slightest. “Pah,” he grumbles. “Am I meant to place my faith in such—”

At last his eyes fall upon Weiss and Winter, and the man’s jaw snaps shut.

The royal family frozen in an intense, slightly bug-eyed faceoff; Ruby takes a moment to scan the chamber. Its walls are deep blue and white stone, neatly bricked and engraved with decorative sigils. Halfway up, a series of alcoves lines the room, each one hosting a statue or tapestry—out of Atlas history, naturally. Spooky old rulers and fabled warriors provide a silent audience, carved and embroidered eyes gazing sightlessly at the unfolding war of wills.

Weiss is the first to speak. “Your Majesty,” she greets, squashing the tremble in her words. “I—”

“Quiet,” her father snaps. Ruby feels a growing dislike for the man; from the triumph in his flinty eyes, she wouldn’t put it past him to have waited just to cut his daughter off. “This childish farce—”

“No.”

Winter smiles thin and sharp as her sister marches forward, hair swaying across the crest on her back. The _clack_ of Weiss’s heels echoes in the sudden quiet, her chin raised and spine straight.

“I will _not_ be silent. I have been silent long enough.”

Ruby pumps a fist low at her side. _Tell him, Weiss!_

Ironwood and Winter move to flank the heiress, drawing a sneer to the false king’s thin lips. “I see,” he hums, tone dipping dangerously. “The dog finally shakes his leash.”

The general looks his former master in the eye. “You haven't deserved my trust for many years, Jacques.”

But the ruler’s face only gains a crafty cast. “Well then,” he snarls. “I suppose it’s fortunate I didn’t tell you _everything_.” One well-dressed arm shoots up to point over their heads. “My daughters, you are not the only ones to have gained allies!”

Ruby and Ironwood make a quick about-face, weapons rising. Velvet hops down as the young werewolf draws an arrow, its tip zeroing in on—

“Well, about that.” Roman Hood slouches against the side of his alcove. The niche is directly above the main doors; they must have walked right beneath him as they’d entered. “I’m not sure lending you a hand would be in my best interests.” His words lower to a whisper. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but we’re sort of outnumbered.”

The huntress-in-training turns back to Jacques, seeing him grow impossibly paler. “Don’t you dare!” he bellows. “Your mistress promised aid!”

“ _She_ sure did.” The criminal grins, cap twirling around one finger. “ _I_ didn’t. I’m only here for one thing and one thing only. And since you so kindly let slip where it is…”

“The mirror. So that’s your—Ah!” Weiss’s father raises a desperate finger, other hand patting his pockets. “You may know _where_ it is, but I’m the only one who has… the…”

Roman lifts a hand, metal glinting between his fingers. “The key, right.” As the other man sputters, he dons his cap, hefts his staff, and sketches an uneven bow. “Well, I’m off. Best of luck to you all!”

With that, he hops off his platform, hooks his cane over the top of the doorframe, and swings through. He hits the floor running, the patter of his boots quickly fading as he flees.

“After him!” Weiss and Winter shout in unison; the former looking to Ruby, the latter to the General. “We can't let someone like _him_ loose in my castle,” appends the younger princess, tone brooking no argument. “Quickly, go!”

“But…”

“We can handle Father,” Ruby hears Weiss murmur, features softening just a fraction. “Trust me.”

Winter inclines her head, gaze darting to the man in question. “Yes. This is family business.”

The teenager looks up at Ironwood, who shrugs back, as helpless as she is. This is the Schnees’ show, after all.

Cyborg and werewolf bolt for the door, neck-and-neck as they chase the sound of Roman’s footsteps. “So you believe you can _handle_ me?” is the last thing Ruby hears before the doors slam shut with a heavy, ominous _thud_. Back to perching in the crook of her elbow, Velvet shivers.

“They’re stronger than him,” Ironwood says. The cyborg’s breaths are unlabored despite their breakneck pace, and Ruby’s inhuman hearing picks up a faint, tinny echo in every word. “We shall deal with this wastrel and be back in time for the coronation.”

“Yeah!” the werewolf resolves, skidding around a corner on one paw. The palace is alive now, vibrating with the footsteps of hundreds of mildly panicking occupants. It makes it easier for them to travel unnoticed, but doesn’t slow the trio, largely thanks to the human bulldozer that is General James Ironwood.

“There he is!” Velvet cries, spotting the white tails of the robber’s coat as they whip around the corner.

A wrinkle grows between the general’s eyes. “He’ll be heading for the treasury, but I know a faster route. This way!” With a wave of his metal arm, Ironwood swerves down a narrow hall, his companion speeding in his wake.

“Sure.” The rabbit in Ruby’s arms tugs thoughtfully on an ear. “But won't it bring us pretty close to—”

Something crashes through the wall ahead of them, sending chunks of masonry pinging off the general’s chest. It’s Yang.

“Hey, sis! Foo Foo, Tin Man.” Ruby beams at her sister, now in human shape. A sword pinwheels toward the dragon’s face, and she catches it with her scaled arm. “Is Weiss Queen yet?”

Suddenly, the blonde tenses, boots slipping against the stone as something jerks her back toward the hole in the wall.

“Not quite,” reports Velvet. “You all roight?”

“The magic puppet is almost as tough as I am,” Yang huffs, starting to grin. “I’m having a blast!”

The huntress-in-training studies her sister’s face. Though her breath is labored, her words halting, the dragon is flushed with a joy Ruby recognizes, hair in a glowing cloud about her face. Yang really is having the time of her life.

Ironwood narrows his eyes at the blade in Yang’s scaly fist. “That’s one of ENi's swords. Has Watts gone mad? She’s not ready for the field.”

The blonde braces against the broken bricks, still being tugged toward the great hall. “Pretty sure she is,” grunts Yang.

“And it’s Penny now,” Ruby corrects.

“That _is_ better,” muses the general, still frowning at the wall. “Right!” he snaps, shaking himself. “We have a thief to snare.”

They make it to the treasury with no further incident, but find the door already ajar. The general holds a finger to his lips before slipping inside, and as Ruby follows, she feels her eyes widen at the sight of the treasure trove within. Even ignoring the heaps of gold and gems and valuable looking bits of parchment, the vault is brimming with magic. Its unmistakable tang fills the werewolf’s nostrils, wafting from the enchanted items dotted among the hoard.

Ironwood moves softly for a man of his size, shoulders tense beneath his uniform. Ruby’s tug at his sleeve makes the general look down, understanding dawning across his face as she taps her nose, then points down an aisle.

At the end stands Roman, the carrot-haired outlaw occupied by the magic mirror before him. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall.” His light tones fill the treasury. “Come on out, we’ll have a ball!”

The dark glass fills with emerald smoke that soon clears to reveal a spectral face. “Oh, someone new,” says the wizard, squinting through his spectacles. “Or…” The head tilts, as if sensing something inaudible. “Ah. You.”

Roman touches the pointed brim of his cap, a grin on the half of his face that Ruby can see. “Me,” he agrees. “And you, Mirror, you know everything, right?”

“Well,” demurs the looking glass. “Can any being truly know it _all_?”

“So that’s a yes.” The thief taps his chin. “Pity. If only we had more time…” He shakes his head, hand dipping into his coat. “Ah, well. Hold still,” he snickers, “this won't take long.”

The hand reappears with a vial of pink fluid, which Roman dashes across the glass before the onlookers can do more than gasp. A _hiss_ rises from the now-steaming surface, the fog within turning from green to cotton-candy pink.

A sighed, “Oh, if you must,” from the looking glass itself stops Ironwood in his tracks, tin hand outstretched. Ruby and Velvet move to flank Roman, but all three are ignored, the outlaw focused on pushing an arm _into_ the mirror. It sinks into the glass, ripples distorting the wizard’s face.

“That’s my ear,” he objects.

“Beg pardon,” Roman grunts, still fishing through the looking glass.

A moment later, the ghostly face raises a silver eyebrow. “And that’s… not my ear.”

The thief freezes. “ _Please_ tell me it’s your finger.”

“I would, but I don’t have any.”

“But—Aha!” Roman brightens. “Those _are_ fingers! And if they're not yours…”

Ruby feels her mouth drop open as his arm pulls free. A gloved hand is wrapped around his wrist, slim fingers clutching tight as Roman strains. The attached limb is next to emerge, then a shoulder, a head, another arm, most of a torso… Until finally, with a very un-mirrorlike _squelch_ , someone tumbles to the treasury floor.

“Neo!” cries the thief. “Have a nice vacation?”

The woman is almost as colorful as he is, her white suit broken up by splashes of pink and brown. She stands shorter even than Ruby, with mismatched eyes and two-toned hair to match her outfit. Behind her, the mirror's surface has gone blank, Ozpin nowhere to be seen.

She scowls up at Roman, slashing a hand between him and the mirror before tapping her own wrist. The movements are off, somehow, and it’s a few seconds before Ruby realizes that there’s no sound to accompany them. No rustle of cloth, no scrape of boots against the floor.

“I know, I know.” He holds up his hands. “You can lecture me later. Wouldn’t want to bore our audience.” The man pivots, slinging an arm around Neo’s narrow shoulders. “Enjoying the show, folks?”

They stare for a moment longer before Ruby regains control of her tongue. “Sort of!” she admits. “Is she evil too?”

“I’m not _evil_!” exclaims the criminal. “I’m… morally flexib—Augh!” His words turn to a yelp as Ironwood tackles him. “Fine, fine! Fighting it is!”

Velvet darts around a diamond-encrusted corner as Ruby goes for the mirror girl, Crescent Rose deployed and swinging. One pink eye flickers toward her before Neo pirouettes neatly out of the way, spinning past faster even than the werewolf’s gaze can follow.

Before Ruby can aim her bow, Roman’s partner whirls back around in a multicolored blur. One dainty fist hits the taller girl’s cheek like a stone from a sling, making her see stars as she bounces off a shelf of trinkets. _Fast_ and _tough?_ the teenager gripes, shoving herself upright. _That’s just unfair._

A swipe of Crescent Rose’s blade forces Neo back, but the woman barely seems troubled, her features schooled into a bland smile. An instant later, there are _three_ of her, the pair of doppelgangers summoned by a silent snap of her fingers. They all move in at once, tumbling over one another in an attempt to confuse the huntress-in-training.

It works. The copies are odorless, soundless as the original, and Ruby is soon in the eye of a storm of pink and white. Blows come at her from every angle, enough slipping past her defenses to make the werewolf cry out.

“Yah!” she grunts, and thrusts Crescent Rose into the whirlwind. The scythe’s edge bisects an image with no resistance, one copy crumbling as the remaining pair skip away.

One is behind Ruby, the other in front; two mirror images bobbing in unison. It’s impossible for her to watch both, but they’re closing in, and she has to make a choice. Before she loses the room to maneuver, Ruby grits her teeth, strikes—

Only for her blade to glide through a mirage. Her blood chills as she turns too slowly, Neo almost upon her… and sees Velvet leap over the wall of shelves with something in her paws.

“Down Bessy!” she roars, bringing the spectral mallet down with all the strength of her furry little arms. The weapon, barely more than a luminous blue outline, shatters on impact, but the blow sends Neo to her knees, a soundless wince twisting her lips.

The rabbit lands on the shelf by Ruby’s head, dusting her paws with a satisfied air. “Gottem,” she preens. “Thanks for distractin’ her so well.”

 _Is that what we were doing?_ “No… problem?” the werewolf replies. “But what was _that_?”

Velvet shrugs with her ears. “Long story,” explains the rabbit. “Involves some hard-loight dust, a camera, and a lotta spilled potion.”

“O-kay.” Ruby blinks, then points to the glowering Neo. “Keep an eye on her. I’ll go help the General!” At the bunny’s nod, she darts back to the mirror’s side, noting the continued absence of trapped wizard. _That_ , they’ll have to deal with later. For now…

“What do you want?” she cries, firing a probing arrow in Roman’s direction. “And how do you keep getting away?”

The outlaw blasts his opponent back with a detonation of his staff, sending Ironwood flying in a shower of gold coins. “Well,” he muses. “ _Leave_. Of course we’d love to stay and loot—er, chat, and I _was_ supposed to turn off those air defenses, but leaving is really our first choice.”

 _Our_. Ruby glances back at Neo, still in a sulky standoff with Velvet. “You got what you came for,” she realizes.

“Turn off the air defenses?” The general zeroes in on a different point. “Who for?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roman cheerfully claims. “But I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough. So sorry we can't stay to see it, but… You all limbered up, Neo?”

In the expectant pause that follows, all eyes turn to the petite acrobat. She smiles back, small and secret, but doesn’t move from her crouch. In fact, neither does her partner, both of them stock-still for an unnatural instant until Ironwood reaches for his arm.

The images shatter into flecks of colored glass, the debris dissolving into thin air. Eyes big as dinner plates, Ruby bounds back to the door where, straining her ears, she can hear the distant patter of two pairs of boots.

“Aw,” she moans, “ _again_?”

 

**FAMILY (Weiss)**

“Handle _me_?” Father repeats, levering himself out of the throne. The man stands more stiffly than any automaton, one long, thin finger swinging between his daughters. “Impudent girl. You presume to speak thus to your sire, your king?”

Weiss stand her ground, feeling her sister step up beside her. “She does,” snaps Winter. “And so do I.”

“Bah,” the patriarch scoffs. “The people barely remember _you_ , my elder daughter. I’d wager most of them barely noticed you were gone.”

Winter’s gloves creak around her swords, and Weiss reaches to lay a hand on her elbow. “I noticed,” she murmurs. “So did others, more than he claims.

“We’re not here to pick apart the past.” The junior princess turns back to her father, voice rising to fill the near-vacant chamber, “but to secure our kingdom’s future. To free it from _you_ , as we have freed ourselves.”

“Is that what you’ve convinced yourselves?” demands Father. “All I see are two of my castoffs. Atlas already has a ruler, one who doesn’t stoop to aligning our nation with dregs and vermin. I will drag my kingdom into a new era, with or without—”

As a muscle jumps in Weiss’s cheek, her sister brushes past. “We are done listening to you, Father.” Her hand extends, fingers twisting to call forth a glyph. “I’ve been waiting _decades_ for this.”

Their father sneers, defiant to the end, and… nothing happens.

Winter flicks her wrist again, to no effect. An attempt by Weiss is no more potent, barely a spark of magic leaping from her fingertips.

“You think I hadn't _planned_ for this?” Father almost shrieks. “Ever since I discovered that Winter inherited the family _curse_ , I have been planning for this moment.” His arms fly wide, sweeping to encompass the throne room. “This entire chamber is inscribed and infused to inhibit all manner of foul witchcraft. No unholy magicks have power here unless _I_ will it!”

Face an icy mask, Winter draws her blades. “I don’t need magic to deal with you.”

“Winter!” Weiss reaches for her sister, only to be shrugged off as the woman strides forward, swords naked in her hands.

“Look away, Weiss.”

 _She can't just—_ “Wait!” calls the princess. “Don’t be hasty.”

“He’s already trying to run.” The most frightening touch is how _casual_ Winter sounds. She is correct, however. For their entire conversation, Father has been steadily edging toward the nearby side door; a low gate which now swings open under their combined gaze, admitting…

“Whitley?” The sight of their brother only makes Weiss roll her eyes, but it seems to have a more profound effect on their elder sibling. She _supposes_ this is the first time they’ve laid eyes on each other in a decade or so, but still…

The moment is short lived because, as always, Father never hesitates to demonstrate what an absolute arse he can be. A glint of metal appears in one hand, the other lashing out to clamp around his son’s scrawny shoulders.

“No closer!” he cries, the gleam of his dagger matching the sheen of sweat on his brow. “Or else!”

Weiss recoils. “You wouldn’t.”

“I will do whatever I must to keep order,” spits Father. “To maintain control over my children, my castle, _my_ Atlas—”

The man shoves Whitley at his daughters and bolts, slamming and locking the door behind him. Forced to lower her blades, Winter catches the boy by one shoulder as he staggers forward.

“Fantastic.” Weiss can’t help but groan. “Can we trade back?”

“Perhaps I deserved that,” grumbles her brother, bristling like a kicked cat. “I suppose I should… apologize for the way we last parted.”

When he’d chained her, slapped a glamour on her, and ordered Klein to turn her in as a witch. Weiss remembers. Though she can't be _that_ angry at him.

“Why?” the teenager asks when she voices this thought. “Don’t tell me you’ve become this much of a pushover.”

Weiss flicks his ear. “No,” she bites out. “Because I… may have done something similar.”

Winter turns from their father’s escape hatch to fix them both with a disapproving frown. “We can talk about this another time.”

“No!” snaps Whitley, thin frame quivering. “Not until our dear sister tells me what she meant.”

Which Weiss had been _about to_ _do_. “Remember when you were ransomed?”

“When we were children, yes.”

“Indeed,” she agrees, eyes flicking about the chamber. “Your captors may not, in fact, have been members of the White Fang.”

He gasps. “ _No_.”

“Yes.” It’s not too horrid if she feels a surge of smug satisfaction, is it? “ _I_ hired them. You were never in any danger,” she assures, catching her brother’s outraged expression. “I instructed them to hold you, that’s all. Maybe rough you up a bit.”

“I was nine!”

“And I was eleven.” Weiss doesn’t bother to hide her pride. “And while you took nearly a decade more to _botch_ the same strategy, _I_ was never even discovered.”

Winter stares between them, scandalized. “Weiss, that’s hardly—”

“Oh?” Whitley scowls, stamps a loafered foot. “Well _you_ never realized who paid those bandits to crash your fifteenth birthday hunt!”

“That was _you_?” Weiss is begrudgingly impressed.

Following Winter’s departure, she and Whitley really had grown into a… unique relationship. Largely due to their father’s encouragement, but credit must be given to their naturally competitive—nay, vindictive—natures.

“Sister, brother,” tries Winter. “We really must save this discussion for later.”

“No, no.” Father’s voice rings out from above. “Take all the time you need.”

Three snow-white heads tilt back, eyes rising to the balcony on the far wall. _He hadn't gone far_ , Weiss realizes. And without their glyphs, Father is firmly out of reach in his elevated nook.

“After all,” he goes on. “None of you are going anywhere.”

Doors fly open behind the throne, admitting two massive figures. The armored humans have to stoop to enter, their mechanized suits looming over Weiss and her siblings.

“Courtesy of Doctor Watts,” booms Father. “The standard Knight models may be effective enough, but these exoskeletons far exceed those mindless automatons. After all, our new Paladins have… the human touch.”

As the ironclad soldiers clank forward, Weiss hears more doors crash open around the throne hall. Guards and Knights pour inside, blocking every exit in one fell swoop.

“Ironwood’s insubordination is nothing to my truly loyal troops,” he crows, a statement that would have held more water if most of said ‘loyal troops’ weren’t made of metal. “Never fear, my children,” the false king laughs. “I am sure you will have plenty to discuss… from adjoining cells.”

 

**TIPPING POINT (Blake)**

Blake clings to the Colossus’s back, claws sunk deep into its pastry plating. In the nearby cockpit, Major Cordovin is still spewing patriotic vitriol, her words bouncing across the surrounding streets.

As is her gingerbread goliath. The surprisingly durable Colossus is doing far more damage that Blake and her allies ever could, leaving craters in the pavement and knocking chunks from the buildings it passes. At least the radius of destruction hasn’t spread, Cordovin keeping close to the gap in the wall like an enormous, sugary mother hen.

Coco has clambered onto the roof of an empty bakery, taking cover behind the chimney and firing at the war machine. Her barely portable ballista spits metal-tipped bolts at the walking barbican, its crusty shield now bristling with splintered shafts. “I think we’re wearing it down!” the homunculus shouts.

Her jade partner bellows in response, his carven form braced beneath the behemoth’s foot. With a mighty shove, Yatsuhashi nudges the machine off balance, sending it pitching toward the ramparts while Blake scrambles upward.

She flattens herself against Cordovin’s candy-cane roll cage, amber eyes narrowing at the pilot. “Had enough?” she growls.

“Not likely!” A yank on the controls nearly shakes off the werecat, drawing a hiss from between her fangs. “I shall never cede ground before the likes of you.”

_So same as five minutes ago, then._

The past half an hour of combat has left all of them exhausted. Coco’s clothes are ragged on her wooden frame, Yatsu’s jade fists starting to chip. Blake’s sides heave from the constant exertion, the nagual having been near—or on—the Colossus for most of the battle. But it’s the war-wafer itself that is worst off. Shield arm sluggish, steps jerky, it groans beneath Blake’s paws, taxed by a demanding operator and opponents far below its recommended serving size.

With a squeal of gears, its clublike right arm smashes through Coco’s bakery, plowing through the thatch and bricks. The mannequin slides down the drainpipe to Yatsu’s waiting shoulder, bracing for a moment before she is flung to another rooftop.

The golem himself thunders forward to join Blake, throwing himself onto the mechanical menace’s leg. Powerful fingers gouge handholds into hardened gingerbread as Yatsu climbs, reaching the figure’s hip to take an enormous bite out of the joint. Meanwhile, the nagual darts to the massive right shoulder, tearing at any exposed machinery. When it starts to shudder, she circles back, hoping against hope that their foe has seen reason.

“You can't last much longer,” points out Blake.

But this time, there is new fire in Cordovin’s eyes. “I knew it!” she shouts. “At last your true colors are exposed!”

_What?_

“Belladonna!” Coco’s yell makes the werecat hiss and leap, landing on an empty stretch of battlement to follow the mannequin’s outstretched arm.

Three sleek airships have appeared over the Capital’s edge. Black, with a red wolf’s head on their banners, the sight makes the bottom fall out of Blake’s stomach.

“The White Fang?” she murmurs. “Now?” _This can't be a coincidence_.

“Hah-HAH!” Lady Cordovin drives the Colossus to its full height, right arm rising. Instead of a fist, this limb concludes in a stout tube, gumdrop warning lights running down its length. Blake had thought it to be a simple bludgeon, but now the battered cylinder angles toward the approaching ships, a bone-deep hum vibrating from within. It shakes, light collecting about the barrel, and—

Sputters, grinding to a halt as Cordovin wails. “How can this be?”

In response, a crack appears down the cannon’s side, the weapon letting out a pained rumble.

“NO!” Her gloved fists beat against the console. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

With a sigh, the werecat drags a paw down her face.

Cordovin doesn’t bother to wait for a response. “Activate backup air defenses!” she cries into another speaking tube, the pipes amplifying her words.

The closest two towers have cannon emplacements built into their peaks. At the major’s call, the guns swivel on geared platforms toward the oncoming airships, their operators leaping to action. Blake looks on helplessly as they load and fire, the projectiles detonating in midair.

Seeking to evade the screen of fire, one of the White Fang airships tips too far. Its propellers scream as it starts to roll, spiraling toward the wall below.

 _No, not quite the wall_. Blake can see the craft will fall short, among a block of wooden houses. A block of fragile, very flammable wooden houses.

Even as the werecat bounds closer, Cordovin’s Colossus crunches into motion. The arrow-filled shield is dragged upward, slanted so that when the ship hits, the worst of the debris will fall to the deserted streets.

The audience of holed-up Atlesians lets out a collective gasp as the mechanized warrior rocks beneath the blow. It remains mostly intact, but its shield shatters, burnt to a crisp. So does the airship, sending its crew spilling onto the city below. Some are lucky enough to land on relatively cushioned surfaces—thatch rooves, ornamental pools, compost pits—while others… aren’t.

Yatsu pounds forward to engage the survivors, Coco watching warily from above as Cordovin’s machine staggers upright. Spent, the colossal cookie manages to drag itself back to the gap in the wall before its legs give out. Then, with a conclusive _CRASH_ , the major shuts down her machine, blocking the hole with its sheer bulk.

The diminutive soldier unstraps herself, pops open a hatch, and clambers out onto the rampart, a sword in her hand. “Stay back, beast!” she starts. “Don’t think—”

“Oh, _save it_ ,” Blake snaps, rising to faunus shape. “There’s no time for that now.”

Even harassed by cannon fire, the remaining pair of airships have landed. The defenses fall silent as the craft finish their descent, too low to risk further bombardment. Ladders unroll down the ships’ sides; masked, inhuman figures pouring from their holds. Several dozen in total, with an all-too-familiar figure at their head.

“We have bigger problems.”

 

**INTERLUDE- I’M THE ONE (Mercury)**

Mercury of School Black, Prince of Atlantis, dives to avoid his brother’s blade.

Bubbles stream off the razor-sharp edge as the short sword whips over his head, trimming a few floating strands of silver hair. With a pump of his fins, Mercury glides out of the way, looping around to his opponent’s open back.

The larger merman spins faster than he’s expecting, and the blunt edge of his door-sized shield slams into Mercury’s armored arm, drawing a cry from between clenched teeth. The rest of the prince’s torso is bare, a spear in his opposite hand.

Unlike his foe, the younger merman’s head is uncovered. It’s impossible to see into that ridiculous helmet, but the prince is certain that beneath, his brother is laughing. Murmillo usually is. He brings his blade to bear, drawing back—

Mercury’s spear jabs him in the bronze-scaled tail, and the merman stiffens, flailing his sword and shield to no effect. They thrash apart, blood clouding the water, and the smaller prince grins.

“First blood to Mercury,” King Marcus booms from his clamshell. The seat is spacious and suspended directly above the action, their father perched on its edge like a bearded guillotine. “Release the Grimm-sharks!”

Both mermen struggle for height, neither wanting to be closest to the frenzied predators. The beasts are collared and leashed to the arena floor, their chains just long enough for them to form a hemisphere of gnashing teeth.

 _Dammit, Murmillo._ Mercury spares a moment to fume. _This is your fault. Bleeding everywhere like that_.

The danger is very real, but they both know that their father expects no less. Two of their brothers have died in matches like these. It’s a great opportunity to thin out competition for the throne; much less work than poison or sabotage or surprise axe-murder.

Although their eldest brother Moray had been poisoned, sabotaged, _then_ killed in the arena, so the methods are hardly exclusive.

Mercury dodges another slash from Murmillo, then punches him in the helmet. His plated arm guard rings a satisfying _bong_ from the metal, giving him another opening to carve a grin into the bigger merman’s side. It shouldn’t scar too much. Not as bad as some of the ones Merc’s got, anyway.

Of course he’d never stoop to offing one of his big bros. Injure? Sure. Some light maiming, tops. But he’s the youngest of seven, and _likes_ not being seen as competition. He’s not the most strapping—that’s Murmillo—or the smartest—Marlin—or smallest or slyest—both Morgan—or even the most sinister—Morgan again.

And because Mercury’s not an idiot, he swims with the current. Doesn’t stand out, tries to win as little as he can. It’s getting hard to throw some of these fights, but there’s no sense in drawing his brothers' ire—at least not until there’s only one or two left.

“Second blood, Mercury,” announces their father, sounding as bored as Mercury feels. “Cut the chains.”

And there the guillotine goes.

_Cut the what?_

Murmillo’s helmet turns, matching Mercury’s second of shock. Then his brother swishes his sword, shrugs, and turns away to hack at the nearest charging shark.

“One kill Murmillo,” updates King Marcus, jolting his youngest son into motion.

 _Damn Father’s games_ , Mercury grouses, then gets to shark-stabbing.

…

“Merc really won?”

“He earned it,” chuckles Murmillo, cradling his wounded arm. “And you know what that means…”

“Land watch,” chorus all three of his assembled brothers.

“See if you can find something interesting this month,” sniffs Marlin. He, Morgan, and Murmillo are the only of Mercury’s brothers still swimming since that leviathan got Marcellus. Before that, Merritt had been slain in the ring by Moray, who himself was put down by Morgan.

So now there are four princes including Mercury, who slouches further against the reef under his brothers’ eyes. “I’ll keep an eye out,” he grumbles. “But the surface world is _never_ interesting.”

“Last month I saw a cow,” Murmillo boasts. The largest and eldest of the surviving siblings, he had been born at a comfortable third place in the race for the throne.

Morgan rolls his eyes. “We have those, bubble-brains.”

“We have _sea_ cows,” retorts his older brother. “They're boring. All fat and gray and legless.”

“ _We’re_ legless!” Marlin snaps. “Many things under the sea are legless!”

Mercury checks over both shoulders before speaking. “Not Tyrian.”

“Eugh, Tyrian.” Three out of four princes shudder in unison.

In the court of King Marcus, Tyrian Callows is the resident fool and poisoner. Unlike the elegant fish tails that Mercury and his brothers possess, the jester’s lower half is… well, mostly legs. Six glossy purple legs, to be exact, plus a segmented, stinger-tipped tail. Between that, the constant cackling, and of course the poisoning, most of the king’s sons give him a wide berth.

“It’s almost time,” drawls Morgan, the only one who doesn’t. The sixth eldest glances upward as he returns to the original topic. “Watch out for cows, little brother.”

As Mercury swims away from his brothers, he is careful to keep his strokes steady. The youngest prince doesn’t let his excitement show until he reaches the city’s edge, pulling into an exhilarated corkscrew as leaves Atlantis behind.

While he follows the markers to the surface, Mercury feels his heart flutter. _The Surface_. He’s only earned the right to peek at that waterless world twice before, but each visit had left him craving more.

Unlike his brothers, the young merman has no particular fondness for their underwater kingdom. It’s a long shot that he’ll ever take the throne, and he’s explored what feels like every inch of their territory, from the deepest shipwreck to the darkest cavern.

Even Father’s trials have lost their charm. Hobbled by his desire to stay under the radar, Mercury holds back in most contests. The moment he shows any real ambition or skill, he knows, is the moment his brothers start plotting his assassination.

But up on dry land, he’s seen marvelous things. Things like _fire_ and _ships_ and _ayy-er_. Yes, especially _ayy-er_. The substance fills the surface world as water fills the sea. But it’s so much lighter than the pressurized waters of Atlantis, so much… less wet. Beneath the waves, he’s always tasting salt, and everything is tinted an annoying blue-green. Every movement made in the sea feels a thousand times freer in open _ayy-er_ , and Mercury is always a fan of more freedom.

So now, in private, the prince lets himself long to leave the water entirely, to venture on land where they hop and skip and probably don’t have their sons kill each other for sport.

“Oh, yes,” giggles Tyrian, suddenly an inch from his left ear. “Things are _quite_ different up there.”

“Poseidon’s pr—”

Mercury cuts himself off, adjusting the belt slung across his otherwise naked torso. Composure regained, his tail propels him away from the rock face where the court fool clings, silver scales flashing as he twists. “What do you want, lobster?”

The man-scorpion just snickers, bubbles leaking from his grinning teeth. “Oh, just passing by.” His braided tail of hair floats back and forth as he shakes his head. “With those stars in your eyes, I’m not surprised you didn’t notice me earlier.” The smile turns shrewd. “Eager, are we?”

“Of course not.” His denial is too quick, only causing Tyrian’s grin to deepen.

They bob in uneasy silence for a long moment.

“Is there anything else?”

“Carry on, carry on.” With a final hum, the jester waves him off, and Mercury resumes his commute with nerves on edge. He doesn’t let his guard down until his head breaks the surface, gray locks plastered to his scalp.

At once, sounds, smells, and sights swarm the merman’s senses. The roar of the surf against the nearby shore. The whiff of distant smoke from the seaside town. The prow of the galleon about to run him over.

Mercury dives, resurfaces at a safer distance from the ship. It looks better-made than others he’s seen—not that the merman knows the first thing about human sea vessels—all polished wood and gold inlay. Merry lanterns hang along its sides, and crew hurry back and forth across its decks. None are idle, save for the human girl that leans on the rail.

Brushing aside dark, windswept locks, she leans forward. Mercury lays low, submerged up to his eyes, but still she peers into the murky waves, stretching further and further until, with a piercing yelp, she slips over the gunwale and tumbles into the sea.

“The King’s daughter!” a sailor shouts as the ship rapidly leaves the princess in its wake. “Turn! Turn!”

The merman glides forward, but as he nears the splashing girl, it becomes obvious that her panicked wails are actually rather halfhearted, not panicked in the least.

“Help.” She’s thrashing both arms above her head, but that only tells Mercury that she has strong swimming legs. Human limbs seem so inefficient—they must be kicking like _mad_ under that fancy red dress. “Help, oh help, I’ve fallen overboard; please, please won't someone save me.”

 _Was that a semicolon?_ Mercury slows, getting more wary by the second. With his brothers’ penchant for drowning sailors, he wouldn’t put it past the humans to have set some kind of trap.

Eyes bright as lanterns pin the prince, spotting him among the choppy surf with unnerving ease. “About time,” she calls.

 _So she_ is _a lure_.

But as her ship approaches, the human princess just splashes closer to speak in lower tones. “Meet me at midnight by the northern tide pools,” the girl hisses, then turns and swims with smooth, firm strokes toward her galleon.

Mouth still ajar, Mercury dips back under, needing some quiet to mull this over.

_Why is it always midnight?_

…

The next morning, Mercury drifts back into his cavern with much to think about. None of it shared with his brothers, of course.

 _This Sea Witch_ , he muses. _If she’s even real…_

He’d found the princess waiting where she’d promised, golden eyes gleaming in the moonlight. The merman hadn't left the water, and when an ambush had failed to materialize, they’d got to talking. Mercury hadn't told her _everything_ , of course, but the lure of setting fin— _foot_ —on land, of leaving his father’s domain entirely, had been too much to ignore.

The prince’s tail curls forward, bobbing sadly beneath his frown. The human had been vague on _how_ exactly this Witch would help, but it seems to him that gaining legs must also involve… removals.

 _Well_ , he supposes, _there’s only one way to find out_.

Still properly paranoid from their last encounter, he’s half expecting Tyrian to pop up when he sets out, and the fool does not disappoint.

“Oh, the Sea Witch,” he croons unprompted. Mercury has long since given up on analyzing Tyrian’s apparent mind-reading, but this latest is enough for him to shoot the half-arachnid a suspicious glare.

“Have you been following me?” _Should I start looking up antidotes?_

“Why, I _must_ accompany you,” chatters Tyrian, not answering. “I insist. Can't have the King’s youngest son going somewhere so deep, so dark without escort.” His hands morph to a pair of claws, which he clacks maniacally. “Come, I know the way.”

Tyrian’s way follows close to the directions Mercury had gained from the human princess. _West of the venomous reef, third shipwreck on the left…_

They enter a winding tunnel, luminous purple kelp casting an eerie light over the walls. Up, down, and around they go, the prince shivering as the chill seeps into his bones. Finally, the tunnel opens into a vast underground cavern, spikes of stone jutting from every wall.

“This way,” hisses Tyrian, scuttling through the murky water without even a flinch.

Well, Mercury had thought he’d seen the deepest and darkest corners of his father’s realm. But this cave easily beats any of those. You can't get deeper than below the sea bed, and the darkness is almost physical, shadows oozing out to surround the visitors. At the deepest, darkest point of this deep, dark cavern, two slabs of rock protrude from the black sand, jagged as a leviathan’s maw. From within this overhang wafts a low voice, curling around Mercury’s ears as he hesitates.

“Come in, child, come in,” it whispers. “Didn’t your father ever teach you? We mustn’t lurk in doorways.”

Tyrian ducks his head as the voice’s owner emerges from the fissure. She is tall and graceful, her skin and hair pale as bone. In contrast, there is no white in her eyes, which are bloodred, deepening to black at the edges. Dark veins crawl up her cheeks and down her bare forearms, claw-like nails beckoning to her guests.

“Closer,” the Sea Witch purrs. “I’m here to help.” She sweeps forward, lower half veiled by what could be ragged black skirts or a writhing mass of tentacles. Mercury sure _hopes_ it’s the former, but he doesn’t dare stare long enough to be sure.

“Now, merfolk only ever visit my grotto for one of two things.” The Witch taps her chin with a single sharpened finger. “Power… or freedom.” She pauses, those crimson orbs studying his every pore. “Ah, freedom it is.”

Still half-bowed, Tyrian crabs across the cavern floor to stand at her side. “The little prince wants—”

Mercury has never seen the jester fall quiet so quickly. Even King Marcus can have trouble getting the scorpion to shut up. But the Witch silences him with barely a glance. “I wish to hear _him_ say it.”

The merman squares his shoulders. “I want to leave the water.” It’s first time he’s said the words out loud. Which, he realizes as the Witch smiles, may have been the point. “Can you do that?”

“ _Can_ she?” Tyrian gasps. “She can do much more than _that_.”

Again, the Witch cuts him off with a look. “Including speak for myself.”

He sweeps out an arm as he kowtows. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“Leave us,” she commands, and he obeys without question, pincers clattering as he retreats.

After his sounds fade, the sorceress turns back to Mercury. “I can do much more than _that_ ,” she sniffs. Behind her, the stone jaws grind open, red and purple light flickering inside. “Come, step into my parlor.”

…

 _This will be permanent_. _It may not be pleasant._

The Witch’s words loop through Mercury’s mind as he stares at the ceiling. As they have been for the past week. Taking her deal would also mean never coming back _here_ , but that’s no great loss.

But what the %$#& does an eldritch sorceress consider ‘not pleasant’?

That line of thought is interrupted by the arrival of his brothers.

“What do you do in here all day?” demands Morgan.

But as the youngest prince searches for an answer that isn't _“Considering forbidden dark powers,”_ Marlin is already waving the question aside.

“It doesn’t matter,” the striped scales on his tail glimmer as it smacks Mercury on the arm. “You're due in the arena.”

“Already?” Even as the grumble leaves his throat, the youngest prince is swinging off his shell, reaching for the chest that holds his gear. Father has never kept a regular schedule, preferring to keep his sons on the tips of their fins. “Wait, if you're all here…”

Murmillo shrugs one broad shoulder. “Maybe you got lucky? Just sharks or convicts this time?”

But the nagging feeling stays at the back of Mercury’s head until he swims into the bowl of the arena. The bench seats are rapidly filling, but his opponents have yet to appear. He notes that the shark pits are full again, the aquatic Grimm battering ceaselessly against their grates. Above, his brothers lounge in their clamshells, trading barbs and snickering down at him.

All of that stops mattering when Father enters the ring. King Marcus Black is a very large merman, with a very large beard and a very large trident. He eats leviathans for breakfast and has kept Atlantis running for decades with an iron fist and little else.

Mercury has to work _incredibly_ hard not to turn tail and swim for the exit. It’s not like Father would let him get far if he tried.

His brothers have gone silent, shifting toward the fronts of their shells. Tyrian lurks in the crowd, or lurks as much as he can with the ring of empty space that follows him wherever he goes.

“You’ve been to see the Sea Witch,” says King Marcus, and Mercury starts composing his will. “You know the consequences.”

Well, he does in _theory_ , but no one’s seen the punishment for years—and now he’s starting to see why.

“Even for my own son,” sighs Father. “TURN THEM ON!” His sudden boom sends ripples through the onlookers while the arena rumbles. Spouts of scalding water erupt from the floor, distorting the water with their force. The hazards crisscross the arena, promising severe burns—at _least_ —to anyone who gets in their way.

Marcus blurs forward, ebony tail thrashing. His trident lances out ahead, barely missing Mercury as the prince throws himself aside.

He doesn’t know if he can beat Father. He doesn’t know if he can _survive_ Father. And the king definitely isn't holding back.

A massive hand almost closes over his son’s head, only retracting when it is greeted at spearpoint. Before Mercury can regroup, that oversized pitchfork whips around, flinging him into the arena floor and sending up a cloud of sand.

The slate-haired prince spirals around a waterspout and slashes at his father’s back, only for the king’s trident to glance off his plated arm. His armor saves him from first blood, but sadly does nothing to the elbow that follows. Mercury feels something _crack_ in his nose as he recoils, almost tumbling straight into a boiling jet.

“First blood to the King,” announces Murmillo, sounding almost reluctant. “Release the beasts.”

A fair number of the first wave of Grimm swerve into hot spots and dissolve immediately. The ones that remain lunge against their leashes, earning a contemptuous snarl from Marcus as he skewers one and flings it across the field.

The creature survives long enough to snap at Mercury, but the true danger proves to be the smog it leaves behind. The dark cloud of the Grimm’s remains conceals his father’s charge until it’s nearly too late, the prince’s spear torn from his grasp by the prongs of that _& *@#ing_ trident.

Mercury slips the sword from his belt, then tears off the woven strap and lets it hang from his armored fist. The next time King Marcus comes roaring forward, he slips _in_  below those deadly points to wrap the belt around his father’s gills. Sensing the danger, the larger merman tenses, head whipping back and forth. The sharpened bits of his weapon can't reach Mercury, so the only danger is being beaten by the shaft.

His father’s fingers close around his head, and the merman reconsiders. Having his head popped off like a barnacle is also a very present threat.

He stabs blindly with the short sword, feels it sink home.

The crowd’s collective gasp almost drowns out the king’s bellow. Mercury barely manages to keep hold of his blade as he is thrown into the packed sand below. It’s not as yielding as it looks, and two sharks are waiting with drooling jaws, but the prince manages to turn it into a roll—almost.

His unarmored shoulder comes down wrong, and by the time he stops tumbling, the limb has gone limp. Blood continues to trickle from his nose, and he flicks it away as he tests his injured arm. _Nope. Useless._ Grunting, Mercury switches sword hands, his blade wobbling up as Marcus advances yet again.

The king has slowed, but not due to injury or fear or his brief suffocation. No, he’s just switching tactics, making sure his son can't get away with the same trick twice. It’s a good thing, then, that Mercury has at least one more. And this one’s a real killer.

Waiting for Father to strike is the hardest part. The prince hunkers between a geyser and a chunk of coral, watching Marcus drift closer until, finally—

The king lunges, and he flips over the coral, tail planting on the rocky surface. With a desperate shove, he is propelled back as the debris rocks forward, coming down to block half the waterspout and redirecting it into the king’s chest.

The big merman’s screech is swallowed by a cloud of steam, only his flailing tail and trident still visible. They go still after a minute, the cry dying out as—Brothers willing—so does the king.

The sharks move in as Mercury swims up and away, up to the level of the silent crowd. Spots of light fill his vision, and one arm dangles uselessly, but at least he gets to enjoy seeing his brothers gawk.

Not for long, however. Marlin’s face tips him off, the older prince’s eyes going wide as Mercury stiffens, spins—

Father grabs him by the tail, his own fins still weighed down by a wriggling shark. His eyes are barely open, his teeth clenched with pain and rage. Covered in shark bites, torso and face layered with burns, Marcus still holds his trident, hand clenched just below the head. More than holds, in fact. As the last dregs of strength fade from his burly form, the king manages to stab once, twice, three times before he goes still at last.

Mercury follows suit as his brothers dive from their shells. Numbness seeps up his body as his eyelids drift shut, the twisted mess of his tail the last thing he sees.

…

_“You couldn’t save the… aquatic half?”_

The voice is unfamiliar, distorted by water and Merc’s own murky awareness. He’s… floating, the merman feels, in salt water that feels not quite right.

_“I’m afraid not.”_

He’d know that merry tone anywhere. _Tyrian_. Vision still dark, Mercury reaches out, his palm flattening against something smooth and cool.

 _“Pity.”_ The first speaker again. _“I’ve always wanted to dissect a merman.”_

That comforting little factoid is enough for the prince to force his eyes open. Right away, he wishes he hadn't.

The merman is in a transparent tank, water sloshing out of the open top as he starts to flail. Outside of his aquarium, Mercury’s surroundings are entirely alien, far too ordered and angular to be shaped by merfolk. It’s some kind of laboratory, obviously, with plenty of mysterious machines and enigmatic liquids bubbling away in the shadows. Torches line the walls, a sign that wherever he is, he’s on land.

Another hint is his audience. As suspected, one is Tyrian, who clicks his half-dozen legs in a mad jig as their eyes meet. The other is a human, tall and dark with charcoal robes. Behind them, silent until now, is the Witch.

“Awake?” she murmurs. “Welcome back, little prince.”

Her presence makes Mercury do the one thing he’s been careful to not even consider. He looks down.

 _Well, % &!#_. The prince’s tail, his sterling silver tail, is gone. In its place are a pair of jointed iron limbs; darker, uglier, and ending in two clawed feet.

“Not really what I had in mind,” he burbles, poking a metal thigh with one finger. “But I’m guessing you don't do refunds.”

The human leans uncomfortably close, the glass wall doing nothing to hide his interest. “Try wiggling your toes for me, would you?”

Mercury stares blankly back.

“Those spiked bits on the ends of your—yes, that’s it.” He bustles to a desk and starts taking notes. “Now the ankles.” Still uneasy, Mercury obeys. “Good, now knees? Excellent.”

“The rest can wait, Doctor.” Tyrian scuttles aside as his master glides forward, laying a black-veined palm against the tank. “Are you not satisfied?” she asks the merman— _Or am I something else now?_ Mercury wonders. _A manman, maybe?_ —her words impossible to read. “Have I not done exactly as promised?”

Which reminds him. “You mentioned a price,” Mercury ventures. “It’s not my tongue, is it?” A hand rises to his mouth. He’s heard tales like this before.

“Why would we want that?” scoffs the human doctor.

Tyrian snickers. “In some lands, it _is_ considered a delicacy.”

Mercury’s other hand joins the first as he drifts toward the back of his tank. He likes talking, thank you very much.

But, “No, nothing so… barbaric,” says the Witch. “Your services will be sufficient. Another of my patrons requires a fighter, a killer of your caliber. I believe the two of you have already met.”

She says ‘patrons’ in the same way Father used to say ‘sons’, but apart from the tone, that doesn’t sound so bad. “And after?” the merman probes, still cautious. “I’m guessing I can't just pop down to Atlantis for weekend visits.”

“As you’ve no doubt discovered, you still possess gills,” the doctor pipes up. “But the prosthesis I designed you is hardly suited for swimming.”

“We may need your services again,” the Witch informs him. “But as long as you come when ordered, your life is still yours.”

Mercury swallows. “And if I don’t.”

He can't stop himself from flinching when Tyrian’s face suddenly squashes against the aquarium wall. “If you don’t,” giggles the poisoner, “then you’d better start swimming—sorry, running.” His grin grows impossibly wider. “Yes, yes. Run far, run fast,” he singsongs. “Any less is just _no fun_.”

“Enough,” purrs the Witch. “Mercury will make the right decision, I’m sure.”

 _Decision_. Like he has a choice.

“All right.” Mercury pulls on a smirk. “Who do you want me to kill?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Things are bad, but can they get worse?


	8. The End Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forces converge on the royal palace for a final confrontation.

**I MAY FALL (Weiss)**

Despite Father’s bluster about cells and dungeons, Weiss has been sent… to her room.

The door is barred, and she hears the occasional _whirr_ from the Knights posted outside. But even so, she feels awfully like she’s been given a time-out. Not helping this resemblance is her inability to use her glyphs, just like the official time-out chamber upstairs. The memory of that bare room still makes the princess shiver, recalling times when a younger Weiss had been confined within. The dampening is a recent addition to her chambers, however; Father _has_ been busy.

She paces before her four-poster bed, listening to the distant rumbles of battle. Assuming all has gone as planned, the rebel airfleet should be slipping away soon, if they haven't already. Her companions are scattered throughout the palace, and her siblings are far away in their own quarters.

On second thought, this venue of imprisonment makes a queer sort of sense. Their bedrooms are on separate floors—to discourage mingling—but all three reside in the castle’s central spire. Quite high up on the central spire, in fact. The only entrance to the tower is on a much lower floor, and all the windows have been sealed tight.

The room dims abruptly, only to be warmed by a growing orange glow. Weiss feels her heart sink to shoe level as the light coalesces into—

“It’s been quite a while, snow pea.” Cinder grins like a shark.

Weiss edges sideways, putting the bed between them. “It has,” she agrees. _And_ _I was quite enjoying it_. “Have you come to make another offer?”

Her purported fairy godmother twirls in midair, amber-tipped wand leaving a trail of sparks. “Are you not in need of assistance? Think of all those poor little rebels, waiting on _you_.” Translucent wings flare as she rises. “I’m only trying to help, sweetling.”

“What can you do?” the princess prods. _And how do you know about the Resistance?_

“I’m so glad you asked.”

With a swish and flick, the curtains snap shut. The sudden darkness is banished when the room’s rarely used chandelier flickers to life, sending points of light dancing across the walls. Emerald and Mercury _vop_ into being on either side of their mistress, arms thrown up to frame the fairy as she raises her wand like a microphone.

 _“With…”_ Cinder trills, _“just… a…”_

 _Ugh_ , Weiss thinks. Since her experience at the Arena, she’s soured on musical numbers, but can't see a way out of this one.

 _“…wave of my magic wand,”_ sings Cinder. _“Your troubles will soon be gone._

_“With a drop of despair, a pinch of rage,_

_“We’ll burn your way from this gilded cage.”_

The dresser and wardrobe gambol about the bedroom’s perimeter, joined by a flock of smaller domestic implements.

_“I’ll give you power, I’ll set you free._

_“The kind of Queen that Atlas needs._

_“You’ll be ruler within the hour._

_“A brand-new global super-power.”_

Mercury and Emerald roll their eyes, performing the least enthusiastic jazz hands she’s ever seen. Cinder, meanwhile, flits through the air, trailing fire and belting out her increasingly disturbing lyrics with glee.

_“Your star will rise, your foes will fall,_

_“Now Godmother’s here to burn them all!_

_“Every subject will sing your praise,_

_“And if they don’t, they’ll be set ablaze.”_

“Er…” starts Weiss, but her words are swept away with the dancing flames. Their shadows form scenes on her bedroom walls, smoky tableaus illustrating Cinder’s words.

_“Forget your father, forget your sis,_

_“You’ll rule your realm with an iron fist._

_“You’ll save the kingdom and show them all._

_“With just a dollop of martial law.”_

The princess dodges a flying hairbrush. “Now, hold on—”

_“And if the soft touch doesn’t work,_

_“Here’s sexy contract killer, Merc—”_

“STOP!” Weiss’s shout finally brings the production to a halt, Mercury tumbling over a footstool mid-plié. “Thank you… Godmother, but I’m sure my allies will be along shortly.”

Cinder’s beatific smile goes sharp. “Are you certain, my dear?” A twitch of her wand, and the curtains fly open. “They seem quite busy.”

Her breath catches in her throat. From the tower, she has a clear view of the rear gate—and the melee that threatens to spill into the palace grounds. She spies the white of Atlesian troops, a few colorful dots that could be Blake’s companions, and several airships. One is Sun’s craft, skimming low over the rooftops as its rebel crew joins the battle. The other two, landed in the heart of the Capital, fly the flag of the White Fang.

 _How…_ Weiss feels her fists clench. It doesn’t matter _how_. As much as she hates to admit it, Cinder is right. She needs to get out of here before their plan goes even more off the rails. But she doesn’t need the help of a dubious fairy godmother. _I can escape my childhood prison myself_.

“Your friends are scattered,” purrs the fairy.

Weiss nods. “Indeed.”

“And these chambers seem quite secure,” Cinder continues.

“I’ve noticed.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that father of yours had a few more tricks up his sleeve.”

“It’s entirely possible,” agrees the princess.

“And?” her godmother leads, giving Weiss an expectant look.

“Thank you for the warning,” she says, carefully polite. “I will be sure to consider this new intelligence.”

Cinder’s face freezes but for the twitching of one eye. “Excuse me?” Behind her, Emerald gulps, grabs Mercury, and vanishes.

“I’m afraid I still have no need of your services.” Perhaps Weiss is enjoying this a little too much. “It would ill behoove a future ruler like myself to take such a… shortcut.” Such a violent, dictatorial shortcut.

The fairy draws herself up, voice cool. “Future ruler? Perhaps, perhaps not. But I warn you, I may not offer my aid again.”

 _Good_ , thinks Weiss. “Nevertheless, my mind is set.”

Cinder’s tone drops several more degrees. “Very well,” she says, and with a whisper of wind and fire, departs. Weiss sucks in a breath as the room’s temperature drops to normal, wiping the sweat from her neck. She takes a second, then third glance about her chambers before relaxing fully. Then:

“ _Finally_ ,” mutters Ilia. “I thought she’d never leave.”

 

**THINGS AREN'T LOOKING GOOD (Coco)**

“Get out of here!”

Blake seems almost frantic. It’s not a good look on her, Coco has to say. “We’re doing fine,” the homunculus calls back from her perch, winding her siege bow with one hand. “Long as they keep sprinting straight for the breach, Yatsu and I can handle them.”

The green golem has planted himself in the middle of the street before Cordovin’s crumbling cookie. A broken cart and chunk of rubble form a bottleneck which the White Fang vanguard happily rush into one by one, like idiots. _This is why we didn’t reach out to them_ , she muses. _One of the reasons, anyway_. The others being their growing bloodlust and that maniac of a leader.

A few of the smarter mooks have huddled together, trying to strategize, and she scatters them with a single oversized bolt from her weapon.

“No!” cries Blake. She’s still atop the wall, under Major Cordovin’s hostile—but no longer homicidal—eye. “I won't—You _can't_!” The  nagual stumbles over her words, which is alarming enough. “They shouldn’t have known where, when to attack. Something’s wrong. Very wrong!”

Well, _that_ much is obvious. Coco sights down her bow, trying to pick out the director of the masked mob. Though Cordovin is no longer trying to squash them underfoot, the soldier’s defenses are of little use against their shared foe. The White Fang are smart enough to stick close to the buildings, discouraging heavy fire from the walls as they attempt to slip inside.

Their chief fanatic, that black-suited bull faunus, has already vanished; leaving the assault to be overseen by… Coco nods. _That big fella over there_.

She fires. Her arrow punches through thin air as the lieutenant sways aside, shaven head tilting unerringly toward her position. His jagged blade rises to point at the mannequin, beady eyes shining through his Grimm-like mask.

“Smarter than he looks,” the mannequin grumbles, aiming again.

“Coco!” Blake’s cry warns her just in time. The bat faunus grazes her side as she twists, dodging her counterstrike with a pump of leathery wings. As she hurries to slot another bolt into her ballista, he whips into a tight turn, a blade glinting in his hand as he—

 _Splats_ against the hull of the S.S. Sun.

“Ho there!” shouts its captain.

“ _What_ did you call me?”

“Uh—Hey there!” he quickly corrects.

Coco snickers. “What are you doing here?” she calls. The plan hadn't involved Sun and his crew sticking around after making the drop.

“We saw those black ships skulking around, and I _knew_ they were up to no good.” His blonde head pokes over the rail, a grin on his lips. “Good thing, huh? If we’d listened to Scarlet, we’d be halfway to—”

She never hears where Scarlet wanted to go, because she’s too busy swatting aside the bat-man. Bruised but still flightworthy, he only makes one more halfhearted feint before winging around a corner.

As he flees and Sun’s airship circles past, Coco catches the clatter of falling shingles. She spins, bow only lowering when she sees Blake in panther form.

“He’s—They’re here,” whispers the werecat. “It’s happening again. I can't let—” She has to visibly force herself calm. “You and Yatsu need to go. Warn the others.”

“No.” Coco extends a wooden hand, knuckles brushing the panther’s stiff shoulders.

Golden eyes narrow. “No?”

“Now we have Sun and his merry band of morons. We can hold off these mooks, but _you_ should get going. Warn your team.”

Blake recoils, tail lashing back and forth.

“We’ll be _fine_ ,” Coco drawls, shouldering her bow. “I’m almost offended. Yatsu and I are pretty tough, you know.”

Before the nagual can argue further, the mannequin leaps off their roof. Hardwood fingers dig into the wall as she drops, slowing her descent. Coco hits the ground running, kicking a horned faunus aside as she joins her partner.

“Still in one piece?” The golem returns her grin, raising the lamppost he’s torn from the ground. “I’ve gotten six already. Up for a little competition?”

Yatsu just looks down at the dozen White Fang soldiers moaning into the cobbles by his feet.

The mannequin rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

As Coco steps back and cocks her weapon, she spares a glance toward the collapsed gate. Her eyes catch Cordovin shaking her fist as a black-furred tail whips over the parapet, and the homunculus feels herself grin.

“All right.” She turns back to the oncoming White Fang, aiming her ballista past Yatsu’s shoulder. “Bring it on!”

 

**CEASE FIRE! (Yang)**

“So…”

Yang glances around the great hall. It’s pretty much all she can do, entangled as she is in Penny’s nigh-invisible strings. Even when human-shaped, the dragon could snap one or two—if she put her back into it—but she’s currently suspended in midair by almost two dozen of the wires. Anchored to the floors, walls, and ceiling, they allow the blonde no leverage to tear free.

“Yes?” Penny sits cross-legged on the stone floor, an earnest smile aimed up at her captive.

“Not that I don’t love hanging out with you, but I was sorta in the middle of something.” Yang tugs at an arm, but the movement only sends her bouncing from side to side. “Any chance you could let me down?”

The puppet’s creator has long since departed, leaving the pair of them alone in the hall. But Penny still shakes her head, orange bob tickling her cheeks. “Sorry,” she chirps. “I have my directives. Only another command submitted by an authorized administrator can change that.”

Well, Yang had only understood about a third of that, but it seems like she’s on her own. More experimental flailing only makes her _boing_ up and down, the strings digging into her skin.

“Are you _sure_?” she asks again, catching her breath.

Penny nods. “But we can chat, if you want.”

“Hmph.” The dragon turns her head to stare at the wall of stained-glass windows. “You don’t get out much, do you?”

“Never!” the homunculus replies quite cheerfully.

“In all your life?”

“All thirteen circadian cycles,” confirms Penny.

Yang feels her brows rise. “You’re only thirteen?”

“Affirmative. Thirteen days this morning!”

“ _Days_?” Now she’s just embarrassed. “I’d sure hate to fight you when you're all grown up.”

That seems the wrong thing to say. She hadn't thought a puppet could look so dejected. “I’ll never be all grown up,” Penny mumbles, raising a wooden arm in illustration. “I’m not a real girl.”

“I, uh, hadn't noticed.”

“Doctor Watts carved me from a thousand-year oak. Stronger than any blade!” she brightens momentarily, “but not so good at the growing.”

“Maybe you're just a… late bloomer.” Yang can't help herself. She’s surprised when the other girl actually laughs, a light, hiccupping sound. “Hey, if you liked that, I’ve got plenty more,” the blonde offers. “We’ll be best buds in no time!”

Penny’s giggles are cut short as a door flies open. Several humans in servants’ garb scramble inside, slamming the door behind them.

“They’re _inside_ ,” one pants, wrestling the bar into place. “I saw one with my own eyes! A faunus! A masked faunus!”

“We’ll be murdered in our beds!” wails another.

The first cuffs her comrade across the back of the head. “It’s not even _noon_.”

“Ahem.”

The staff turn, see Penny and Yang, and flatten themselves against the wall. “They’re everywhere!” shrieks the second. “Please, don’t hurt us!”

Yang feels her tethers twang as the puppet swings herself closer. “Sal-u-tations!” Penny greets. “What seems to be the problem, citizen?”

He glances at the bound dragon, who shrugs. “Th-there are intruders,” the servant hisses. “I’m not sure how many.”

“The White Fang?” Yang speaks up. There aren’t a ton of mask-wearing faunus paramilitary bands. Even fewer with the potential to strike here in broad daylight.

A few of the group nod. _Damn._

“Penny,” she starts, “what are your orders for hostile intruders?”

“Why, you should know them by now.” The puppet proudly waves at the strings still entangling the blonde.

“Right, right. I mean _new_ intruders. While the old—and to be clear, completely unconnected—intruders are still here.”

At this posited contradiction, the puppet’s jaw stutters, her head twitching to one side. “Re—Recalculating. I—I—I must go,” she forces out, voice going robotic. “Loc—Locating Doctor Watts is designated Priority: Alpha.”

“You all right?”

“Super!” All at once, Penny’s swords are yanked from the walls, zipping back to the folds of her robe. As Yang flops to the ground, the homunculus fixes her with a stern look. “You stay put, okay?”

“Um… sure,” says the dragon, crossing her fingers.

As soon as the homunculus skips out of the hall, Yang tosses a wave to the dazed civilians and takes the farthest door from Penny’s exit. About five seconds after that, she smacks into Ruby.

 

BREACH (Weiss)

Weiss trails her fingertips over the wall as she paces the perimeter of her chambers.

“What are you doing _now_?”

She feels a vein throb in her temple at Ilia’s petulant tone. The jungle spirit, still in the form of a chameleon, is curled up on her bed, watching Weiss with bulbous eyes and scratching her scaly stomach.

“Thinking,” snips the princess. “I understand the concept might be hard for you to grasp.”

Ilia grunts, unimpressed. “I can get us out of here like _that_ ”—the lizard tries to snap her fingers, realizes that her current shape doesn’t allow for such a gesture, and scowls at Weiss as if this is her fault—“so what’s with the pacing? Are you stalling?”

The naked suspicion in her voice makes the princess stiffen. “I can make my own escape, thank you.”

The chameleon manages a shrug, then sprawls out across a pillow. “Then what was the point of smuggling me inside? I was stuck to your back for _ages_ , and white is such a boring color.”

“You’re… backup.” Weiss grits out. _Irritating, unnecessary backup._ “A last resort.”

She continues to walk. The throne room and her childhood time-out chamber had both been built to suppress her glyphs. But her bedroom _hadn't_. If the enchantments are a recent addition, there could be gaps. Not if the ever-meticulous Doctor Watts had done the work himself, of course; but if he’d entrusted it to one of his sniveling acolytes…

As her left hand brushes the wall, her right is held out, palm up. Every few steps, the princess attempt to summon a minor sigil. She’s had no luck for the past quarter of an hour, but—

White light sparkles between her fingers, a magic circle flickering for a split second. Holding her breath, Weiss backtracks half a step, and the glyph strengthens.

“ _There_ ,” she breathes.

“Wow,” drawls Ilia. “Truly a weapon to surpass—”

Her snark peters out when Weiss closes her eyes, reaches out, and pulls Myrtenaster from thin air. A moment later, she retrieves Ilia’s shock lash as well, tossing the metal coil onto the bedspread.

“Get up,” she demands. “We’re leaving.”

The doors are blown open with enough force to flatten the mechanical sentries on either side, two muffled _crunches_ signaling their destruction. Ilia rolls through a moment later, her pale blue skin matching the carpet that runs the length of the hall.

“Clear,” reports the lizard-girl. “Which way?”

Before Weiss can respond, a shower of dust falls from the ceiling. As both young women look up, cracks split the stone, racing outward until a door-sized section collapses entirely. Through the hole comes the glowing snout of a beowolf, startling a yelp from Ilia. Her electrified whip slashes through the Grimm, reducing it to a shower of snowflakes as Weiss rolls her eyes.

After a moment’s pause, Winter makes her graceful descent through the opening atop a glyph. “I was still using that summon,” she growls.

The lizard-girl gapes at her, still on edge. “You can… summon those things?”

“Indeed. An offshoot of our glyph magic. Weiss, did you not warn her?”

“It must have slipped my mind.”

Her sister narrows her eyes, but doesn’t pursue the subject. “Shall we retrieve our brother?” While Winter speaks, another crystalline beowolf materializes at her back, baring ice-blue teeth at Ilia.

Weiss wrinkles her nose. “Must we? He’s probably safer where he is.”

“The White Fang,” Ilia reminds her.

“Father,” adds Winter.

“Oh, _very well_.”

…

“So what now?”

The four of them have taken shelter in a vacant study not far from the throne hall. Weiss sits behind the desk, Whitley by the door. Winter marches in tight, angry circles; while Ilia, who had spoken, crouches on the window ledge.

“If you’d let me finish Father when we had the chance…” The eldest Schnee adjusts her blades, ignoring Weiss’s glare.

“We are not going to—”

“Put him down?” Ilia shrugs, her face like stone. “Why not?”

Whitley rubs his own neck, frowning.

“It would be _murder_.” Weiss refuses to budge. “We are not judge, jury, or executioner.”

“Speak for yourself,” sniffs Winter.

“Aren’t you trying to become Queen?” Ilia points out. “If anything—”

“If anything,” the princess bites out, “my decision should be final! If I am meant to lead, why are you all making it so _hard_?”

Her brother snickers, then holds up his hands when her glower shifts. “I agree,” he says. “As someone most likely on several kill lists, I am all in favor of organized trials.” The boy rubs his neck again, throat bobbing. “Extensive trials. As drawn-out as possible.”

“Even Father?” demands Winter. The chill has faded from her voice, however. Weiss gets the feeling she’s being tested.

“ _Especially_ Father,” the younger princess declares.

“A lot of people won't like that,” mutters Ilia. From the mutinous look on her face, she includes herself among that number.

Weiss stands. “I told the Resistance; I am no one’s pawn.” She draws herself to her full height—which, admittedly, only brings her eyes level with Ilia’s frown. “Is that a problem?”

“I guess not,” sighs the forest spirit, the fight leaving her stance. “As long as he pays.”

“That,” Weiss mutters darkly, “has never been in doubt. Now, let’s move.”

A cough from Whitley draws her eye. “Where to?” he ventures. “Unless the three of you are planning to storm the throne yourselves…” He pales at Winter’s thoughtful hum. “Which would be _suicide_. Father has doubtless drawn every soldier with an ounce of loyalty, greed, or ambition! If you _insist_ on this half-baked rebellion, at least do it right!”

Ilia’s face tints to a skeptical ochre. “And what’s your plan? Let me guess: Sneak out the back?”

As her brother sputters a less than convincing denial, something else catches Weiss’s eye. The small dressing mirror on the corner table has started to glow, its surface rippling. Under her gaze, the glass clouds over, then clears to reveal a silver, bespectacled visage.

“Greetings,” calls the looking glass. “Are you busy? I can leave a message.”

Whitley and Ilia pause in their bickering. “Oh!” yelps the former. “How did you get here? I thought you couldn’t leave the mirror. The other mirror,” he clarifies.

“Recently events have put an end to my incarceration,” the wizard says. “Now I may move between reflections as I will. Ah, it feels good to stretch my—” he pauses. “Well, I don’t have legs, but you get the idea.”

A knocking interrupts him; not from the door, but from within the glass. The spectral wizard turns, then fades, his image replaced by General Ironwood’s stalwart features.

“—s this thing on? Oh, Your Highnesses!” Behind him Weiss sees the royal treasury, which has apparently been hit by a localized tornado. Valuables are strewn across every surface… except the area around Velvet, who is currently busy shoveling anything within her reach into a bulging sack.

“Stop that!” Whitley squawks. “Those belong to the crown!”

The bunny barely spares him a glance. “I know.”

Weiss clears her throat. “Soon to be _my_ crown,” she reminds the rebellious rabbit.

This at least makes Velvet turn, if only to wink. “Not yet!”

“If I may,” coughs Ironwood. “Ozpin has put us in contact with our allies outside the castle.”

“Ozpin?” Whitley frowns.

“Hello!” chimes the mirror.

The general nods. “The Atlas airfleet is maintaining their blockade, though several ships have diverted to deal with the White Fang incursion. Captain Wukong and his crew are doing what they can, but he’ll need to pull back before the troops arrive. I haven't been able to open lines of communication with the captains en route, and they're likely to attack on sight and sort out allegiances when the smoke clears.”

“Blake?” demands Weiss. “Ruby?”

“Lady Belladonna was last seen moving into the palace,” supplies Ironwood. “Miss Rose has gone to find her sister. If they don’t reestablish contact soon…” He trails off, concern shading his expression.

Ilia slashes a hand through the air. “Well we aren’t getting anything done from—Behind you!”

Everyone in the room looks over their shoulder, but the jungle spirit’s outstretched finger is aimed over Ironwood’s. A dark figure has appeared behind the general, bloodred blade glinting in his hands. Winter dashes to the mirror, but can do nothing but clasp the frame as the glass goes dead.

“Adam,” Weiss whispers. “We need to—”

Winter and Ilia are already out the door. After a moment’s hesitation, Whitley follows, fear of being left along outweighing his reluctance.

Weiss pauses an instant longer, brow knotted in thought. Watts had seemed to know they were coming. Father’s retaliation had been rapid, his soldiers and those cutting-edge Paladins arriving far earlier than anticipated. The White Fang had known just when and where to strike, and now _Adam?_ Roaming free in the heart of Atlas? One or two such debacles had been expected, but _all_ of them…

She frowns, unknowingly echoing Blake’s words. _Something has gone very wrong_. She feels like she’s being herded, steered toward some nebulous goal by… Well, she has her suspicions.

It’s not a pleasant feeling. As she’s said before, Weiss is _no one’s_ pawn. And she’s looking forward to making that very clear.

 

**THE VAULT (Ruby)**

“Wow.”

Upon their return to the royal vault, Ruby manages to get a full view of Ironwood before Yang claps a hand over her eyes. His burnished metal torso. His precision-made mechanical arm. His square-jawed head, crowned with dark hair going gray at the temples.

The reason her sister has covered her eyes? None of these pieces are connected to the others.

“I wanna see!” the werewolf swats at Yang’s scaly right arm, trying to squeeze through the treasury door. “Is he okay?”

“Is he—Ruby, he’s been frickin’ dismembered!”

A polite cough comes from the general’s head. “Actually, it’s more like _disassembled_.”

Yang yelps, palm slipping from Ruby’s face. “You're alive?”

Ironwood’s head glances toward his body. “More or less. Note the lack of blood or… other squishy bits.”

Ruby does so, finally ducking past her sister to enter the vault. Gold, jewels, and magical knickknacks of all sorts are scattered around the chamber, but the huntress-in-training ignores them in favor of collecting the general’s detached limb.

“Thank you,” he says, watching her lay the arm beside his largest component, the one-armed, headless figure slouched against the near wall. “Now, could you—Yes, much obliged.” His head settles back on the fizzling stump of his neck, and Ruby steps back, hopping from foot to foot in anticipation. But…

“Shoot,” Ironwood mutters after several moments. “The port’s been damaged.” He screws up his face, and one leg gives a feeble twitch. “I’m afraid I won't be walking out of here anytime soon.”

“You’re _alive_.” Ruby’s sister repeats, still standing stunned in the doorway. “And weirdly calm.”

It’s a mark of Yang’s shock that no puns are forthcoming. Normally, the blonde would already have one on her lips and several in the chamber, ready to fire at the slightest excuse. But she’s still gaping at the scene when Winter and Ilia arrive, jostling for position as they enter.

“General!” cries the elder Schnee as her companion’s cheeks go green.

“I’m all right,” he responds.

Though still pale, Yang cracks a grin. “Looks like you’re all _left_ to me!” Her eyebrows waggle at his metal right arm, still lying on the floor beside his thigh.

Winter’s answering glare is practically arctic, but Ironwood chuckles. “Yes, I suppose so. Don’t worry,” he soothes his protégé. “No permanent harm done. Arthur truly outdid himself when… rebuilding me.”

Ruby has _so_ many questions, but Weiss shows up just in time to beat her to the punch. Brother at her heels, the princess strides into the room, takes the scene in, and asks, “Where is he?”

Ruby and Yang both point at the fallen Ironwood.

Unamused, Weiss strides forward to crouch by the general. “Adam,” she spells out. “He did this, didn’t he?”

Yang goes stiff, humor fading as her right hand clenches into a black-and-gold fist.

“Yes,” confirms Ironwood. “The minotaur. I’m sorry, my lady, I couldn’t stop him. When it became clear I was fighting a losing battle, I… adjusted my approach.”

“Played dead, you mean,” Ilia surmises. “Did you learn anything?”

He looks down, shamefaced. “It’s true. It was this or be dismembered in truth; and this way, I could see what he did next.” The general nods to one side. “Which was shatter the mirror.”

With a pang of guilt, Ruby’s gaze snaps to the broken looking glass. She hadn't even thought to check on Ozpin or—

“Velvet!”

“Gone to fetch Lady Belladonna,” Ironwood reports. “She slipped out while I fought Adam. After smashing the glass, the minotaur stomped off; from the sound of it, this Sir Taurus is after the same thing we are.”

“Father.” Weiss mutters.

Ilia raises a hand. “All in favor of letting them go at it and scraping whoever’s left off the walls?”

“No way!” Ruby sees her sister flex her replacement arm. “If anyone’s putting that monster down, it’s going to be me.”

For the first time, Weiss’s brother speak up. “And _I_ thought we had agreed to arrest Father,” he accuses, his glower a pale imitation of Winter’s.

“We’re going,” decides Weiss, Ruby nodding her agreement.

“We can't just stand by!” the young werewolf adds. “People could be in dan—”

The castle shakes, a distant _boom_ rolling down the halls.

“Oi!” shouts Velvet. “What’re you all standin’ around for?”

Ruby spins to see Blake bounds into view, the chocolate bunny perched on her back. The panther stops outside the treasury, sagging with relief as she accounts for each of her compatriots. “You’re all here,” she pants. “Good.”

“Blake! You're okay!” greets Yang.

As Ruby throws both arms around her broad neck, the nagual sits back, nearly dislodging her passenger. “Did you see the White Fang?” asks the huntress-in-training.

“Yes. Most of them are stalled outside.” Blake nods, relaxing for a split second before slipping away to sniff the air. “Except Adam,” she adds. “He went toward—”

“The throne room, we’re aware.” Weiss offers the skin-changer a thin smile. “It is good to see you well.”

“We have _got_ to stop splitting up,” Yang agrees.

“You all go ahead. Oi’ll stay with the General,” Velvet volunteers, patting between Blake’s ears before hopping off. “We can try an’ find out which mirror Oz is hiding in this time. Maybe get in touch with the others.”

“Whitley, you should remain with them.” Winter nudges her brother, who brightens considerably at the suggestion.

“I think I shall.”

As he and Velvet trot to Ironwood’s side, Ilia moves to the panther’s, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. “We should get going,” she says. “Everyone we’re looking for is in one place.”

“But…” As they start to move, Ruby feels her forehead wrinkle. “Is that really a _good_ thing?”

 

THIS TIME (Blake)

When the throne room’s entrance comes into view, it’s clear that Adam has arrived. The weighty doors are flung wide, one hanging half-off its hinges.

Blake’s old mentor has already torn through the false king’s troops, only a single Paladin exoskeleton still on its feet. The powered armor groans under the minotaur’s prodigious strength, struggling to restrain him as Jacques shrieks.

“Hold him! Hold him!”

Adam’s mask is gone, either torn off in the scuffle or discarded beforehand. Blake knows her old partner in crime, knows that _he_ knows to use his appearance as a weapon. The brand over his left eye crinkles with every twist of his features, the minotaur’s bovine head ramming forward to stun his opponent.

The Paladin _clonks_ back, Adam’s sword moves, and it’s over, the suit turned into a heap of useless metal wrapped around a dying pilot.

Room cleared, Adam straightens, rolls his neck, and turns to Weiss’s father. “Now, O King.” he rasps. “Any last words?”

Before he realizes they’ve arrived, Blake starts forward, rising into faunus form. But before she can step into the hall, Yang’s hand catches her wrist, the mottled scales warm against her skin.

“Wait,” the taller woman whispers. “You can't—”

She tugs free, feeling her teeth clench. “I _will_.”

“Not alone,” finishes Yang, then grins. “Together. This time, _we’ve_ got _them_ outnumbered.”

“Yeah!” Ruby hisses.

Weiss strides past them all, eyes sweeping over her father as he takes shelter behind his ostentatious throne.

“Stop right there!”

Her shout makes Adam turn, his good eye narrowing before it comes to rest on Blake.

“Wait your turn,” the minotaur snorts, then reaches out for the cowering monarch…

Who stabs him in the hand. As Adam stares at the dagger in his palm, more perplexed than pained, Jacques Schnee scrambles for an escape route. He makes it within arm’s reach of the door before one of Ruby’s arrows _thuds_ into the wood, making him stumble with a yelp. An eyeblink after that, Ilia lands on his back, holding her whip like a garotte.

“ _Please_ give me an excuse.”

As the jungle guardian snarls, Blake and Yang charge, steam billowing from the latter’s pores. Weiss and Winter back up past Ruby, out of the room that smothers their glyphs, and summon a flurry of icy projectiles to cover their allies’ approach.

The missiles shatter against Adam’s broad shoulders as he twists, grasping the hilt of his crimson sword. The blade flashes out as Yang nears, causing Blake to cry out as it enters her partner’s path, but the blonde is already dodging, going low to evade the strike.

With a grunt, Blake leaps high, shifting in midair so that it’s a panther, not a woman, that drops down on their foe. Avoiding his deadly horns, the nagual goes straight for the back of his neck, jaws yawning wide. _No holding back_ , she’d resolved, and she’s sticking to it.

“Nice try!” A meaty hand seizes the scruff of her neck just before her teeth sink in. “But I know you, my love,” chuckles Adam, hurling Blake away. She lands on her feet, paws already moving as Yang shoots up from her crouch. “Every thought, every move you make.”

“Then maybe you should have seen this coming!”

Both the dragon’s hands are wrapped around Adam’s right ankle, a pot-sized hoof held fast as she rises. Arms straining, she yanks the minotaur off his feet, forcing his free hand to brace on the floor. He tries to kick out with his other foot, but only catches air, fingers scrabbling against the stone as he starts to slide.

“YaaAAHH!” With a fiery roar, Yang swings her massive opponent in a low arc, releasing him so that he careens toward the nearest wall. It crumbles under his mass, sending the minotaur into the next chamber through an Adam-shaped hole.

As the echoes fade, she dusts off her palms. “That enough?” the blonde calls.

“Not even close,” Adam growls, pulling himself back through the hole. “You think—”

“Wasn’t talking to you.”

Before following Yang’s gaze, Blake takes a moment to enjoy the look on the minotaur’s face as he is brought up short.

“That will suffice,” says Winter, pacing into the hall. An unkindness of sparrow-sized nevermores swirls about her shoulders, casting a blue glow on the elder Schnee’s features. “The insulating spells have been interrupted.”

With a thrust of her sabre, the flock descends on Adam, driving him back through the hole in the wall. As he slashes uselessly at the air, Blake looks away, watching Weiss and her sister move to stand over their father. Still pinned by Ilia’s knee, his arms wrenched behind his back, Jacques sneers up at his daughters, bedraggled but still haughty.

“They’ll never follow _you_ ,” he sneers at Winter. “I’ve told you a thousand times over: You have no head for leadership.”

Blake bristles at the words. Even now, his condescension knows no bounds. But then, buoyed by the flash of offense on his daughter’s face, the self-titled king missteps.

“Why,” the man chokes out, ignoring Ilia’s presence entirely, “even your sister would be a better choice!”

His triumphant expression fades as Winter starts to smile. “On that, we agree. It’s a pity you won't be in a place to see it.” Another glyph summons a sparkling beowolf. “Be thankful.” Only Blake’s inhuman hearing lets her pick up the whisper. “If I _had_ been in charge, you wouldn’t be walking out of this room.”

Ilia shoves Jacques into the summon’s paws, and he quails as its tongue lolls out, brushing his ear.

“NO!” Adam has clawed his way back into the throne hall, bleeding from dozens of tiny pecks. “HE DIES NOW! YOU ALL D—”

Yang’s scaly fist hits him between the eyes. Even this doesn’t knock the minotaur down, Adam remaining upright through sheer force of spite. He’s beyond noticing the remaining nevermores’ assault, wobbling on his hooves as he swipes at the dragon in human form.

“Just give it up,” she pants as Blake lopes to her side. “If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to shank him in the showers.”

“ _Never_.”

As he lunges once again, Blake readies her claws—

Fire fills the hall, erupting from a point above their heads. The werecat hisses and rolls to put out the sparks in her fur, and even Yang shields her eyes from the burst of light, but Adam is unaffected, bulling through them to the center of the floor.

“Finally,” he snorts, pawing at his wounds. Winter’s summons are shattered by the flames, which lick at the walls before being sucked back in…

To a smirking Cinder.

Weiss stamps her foot. “I _knew_ it!”

 

**FALL (Weiss)**

With a wave of her wand, Cinder seals the room, sheets of rock rising from nowhere to block every exit. Another flick summons her henchmen, Emerald throwing Weiss a wink as she and Mercury appear on opposite sides of the chamber, weapons at the ready.

“Who’s that?” Ruby’s whisper carries across the hall.

Yang glances away from Adam to frown at the fairy. “Some kinda demon?” she guesses.

“She’s the Ice Queen’s fairy godmother,” sighs Blake.

“Oh…” Crescent Rose droops as its owner puzzles this out. “Wait, what?”

Cinder rolls her eyes. “Distractions,” she scoffs. “Deal with them.”

Mercury and Emerald obey at once, springing at the nearest of Weiss’s friends—Ilia in the former’s case, Ruby in the latter’s. As they move in, Adam just turns to his benefactor with a rumble in his chest.

“Your mistress promised the King’s head,” the minotaur accuses. “ _And_ a clear path to the palace. I lost a third of my men before we even landed!”

The fiery fairy frowns, features furrowed with frigid fury. “Our mutual friend seems to have cut and run,” she admits. “But Roman won't get far. We shall find him, punish him… once this is _done_.”

Ignoring her pointed look, Adam takes a step toward Father. “Schnee is _right there_. I’m not waiting another second.”

His quarry peeks out from behind the throne. “Don’t let that creature near me!” the false king pleads, making Adam grind his teeth audibly. “You can't! The Witch promised my safety!”

“True.” Weiss’s godmother taps her chin with her wand. “But Sir Taurus _does_ deserve compensation. Oh, what to do, what to do…”

_Snap._

“ _Ribbit_.”

The room pauses once again, all eyes going to the frog that now squats on the royal throne.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” says Cinder. “You’re perfectly unharmed.” She turns to Adam. “That was the carrot, _and_ the stick. Would you care for another demonstration?”

“No,” he says, stepping back. “I’ll deal with them.” With a flash of tombstone teeth, the head of the White Fang turns away, focus shifting back to Blake and Yang as Cinder floats nearer to Weiss. “In fact, we have unfinished business.”

While he thunders off, the princess raises her sword in a warning that her godmother barely seems to notice. “I had such high hopes for you, dear heart,” the fairy coos. “You could have reigned over so much more than Atlas.”

“Shouldn’t I put my own house in order first?” retorts Weiss, stepping back onto a glyph. “We’re having quite the… pest problem.”

“Nice one!” calls Yang, dodging Adam’s blade as Blake slashes at his legs.

Cinder merely sighs. “If only you weren’t so narrow-minded.” Her yellow eyes narrow. “Ah, well. _C’est la vie_.” The words are followed by a bolt of lightning that Weiss barely evades by skating across a line of glyphs.

“Sister!” she hears Winter call, but the elder Schnee is in no place to help. Cinder’s power far outstrips their own—possibly both of theirs combined—the woman producing a fiery tornado to distract Winter as she speaks to Weiss.

“Why?” cries the younger princess. “What’s the point of all this?”

The fairy sends a slab of stone flying her way. “Atlas,” she says simply. “A lovely kingdom, of course. And so diverse. A force to be reckoned with… but only if united.” A laugh tinkles from her lips. “And as you must have learned by now, unity does not come naturally to the hearts of mortals.”

“You _want_ us fighting amongst ourselves.” Weiss musters the concentration to send a flurry of icicle at her opponent, but Cinder melts them with a look.

“Yourselves, your neighbors, the _who_ doesn’t matter to me.” The fairy shrugs a pale shoulder. “I just need you out of the way.”

Weiss barely dodges a spear of fire. “Of what?”

“That’s for me to know, dearie. You refused to play your part, which means… you just don’t matter anymore. After all,” the fairy muses, drawing back her wand, “I can always find another princess.”

 

**NEW CHALLENGERS… (Ruby)**

“I’m… still confused,” says Ruby, rolling to avoid a pair of thrown daggers. “If she’s an evil fairy, who are you two, exactly?”

Her green-haired foe jabs a thumb over her shoulder, toward where Ilia engages Cinder’s other minion in a storm of iron and electricity. “ _He’s_ a mermaid princess. I’m no one important.”

“Uh huh.” The werewolf doubts that very much. Even with her speed, it’s not easy to dodge the knives this lady is chucking. Ruby struggles to aim an arrow as she dances away from her agile opponent, careful to keep away from the three-way duel that takes up half the hall.

Between Cinder’s fairy magic and the Schnee sisters’ glyphs, the center of the throne room has rapidly become a danger zone. Earth, wind, and fire fill the air, scarring the floor and gouging chunks from the stone. On the other side, Yang and Blake are tag-teaming Adam, dragon and nagual orbiting the minotaur like deadly moons.

“Whoa!” Ruby has to duck beneath a stray bolt of ice, sliding on her knees and nearly colliding with Ilia as she somersaults away from her foe.

“Watch it!” chides the jungle spirit, then flips away as a spear sinks into the stone where she had stood. Ruby darts after her a split second later, pursued by the—

 _Hold on_. The werewolf glances back at Cinder’s henchwoman. “He’s a _what_?”

“Merman,” supplies the merman, armored fist nearly taking off her head. As she skips back, it sails past to punch a crater in the wall, barely missing her wolfish snout.

“You're _strong_. And… you’ve got legs.” He also smells a lot like seafood, so that checks out.

The silver-haired man mimes surprise. “I _do_? Thanks for noticing.”

Ilia has moved to intercept the other lackey, whip batting knives from the air in a shower of sparks. She circles the red-eyed woman, running up and along the wall as easily as level ground.

“Showoff,” grumbles the minion, aiming another blade at her feet.

Hopping over the projectile, the lizard-girl scowls down in response. “Where are you _getting_ all these?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!”

…

“So you sold your tail to a witch,” says Ruby, firing an arrow that the merman catches.

“No, no.” He holds up a finger even as he makes a lazy swipe with his sword. “I bought my legs from the Witch. Losing my tail was… almost completely unrelated.”

“You don’t _seem_ that evil,” she says, drawing another arrow in Crescent Rose.

His eyes go wide and earnest. “We’re not. Cinder cast a spell on us!” he explains. “Yeah, it was her magic, that’s right. Made us do, uh, all that evil stuff.”

Ruby pauses. “Really?”

A knife nearly pins her cloak before Ilia whips it away. “Nah,” drawls the green-haired henchwoman. “We’re just—Hey, gettoff!”

Firing her nocked bolt to discourage the merman, Ruby swivels toward the shout. There she sees Cinder’s minion flailing about, a scaly shape attached to her face.

“Stupid sticky frog thing!” yells the woman, grasping at the transformed Ilia to little effect. The chameleon scrambles down, around, and back up her chin, then grabs two tiny fistfuls of mint-green bangs and—

“Smile!” cries the lizard, then headbutts her foe in the center of her forehead. The _thunk_ makes Ruby wince as the villain sways woozily, knives dangling in her hands.

“Emerald!” her partner shouts, sparing Ruby a kick as he flies past. As the werewolf yelps, he lands and strikes in one smooth motion, the tip of his sword passing within a hair’s breadth of Emerald’s nose.

Forced to release her victim, Ilia shifts back to human size, grinning up from a toadlike crouch. “Your friend’s got one thick skull,” she taunts. “How’s yours?”

As they resume their duel, Ruby fires an arrow at the wobbling Emerald. The ice dust loaded into the bolt freezes her feet to the floor, leaving the werewolf free to—

Nearly get kicked in the head.

“I’ll take you both!” spits the other minion, spinning to flick a clawed iron foot at Ilia. In the same instant, his sword thrusts back at Ruby, clanging off Crescent Rose’s blade as she brings up her guard. The glancing blow carries surprising force, making the werewolf stumble back and drop a hand to her quiver.

Fire would probably best against a creature of the sea, but Ilia is so close that she hesitates to shoot. The forest guardian’s movements may be swift and erratic to disorient their foes, but they’re just as unpredictable for Ruby, too.

As she draws back the arrow, her gaze darts to the opposite end of the hall, thoughts going to her sister.

_I hope Yang and Blake are doing better than we are…_

 

**NEVERMORE PART I (Yang)**

_Stop it!_ Yang shoots a glare at her hands. They’re not shaking. They’re _not_.

Not for no reason, at least. After all, she’s been punching this stupid man-cow for what feels like hours. _They’re just starting to cramp, that’s it!_

Her scaled right fist steadies as she draws it back, feet planted on the bricks. Adam is attempting to skewer Blake— _Again_ , Yang snarls to herself—leaving his broad back wide open.

Until, that is, his too-long sword reverses with blurring speed, stabbing back at the dragon as his good eye flashes.

She stumbles aside, deflecting the blade with her mottled limb. _He’s still so fast_. Yang had hoped the minotaur was just as weary as they are, but it seems there’s no such luck. She and Blake are worn down from their previous fights, and while they may have had the upper hand on Adam at first, he’s come into a second wind.

With his glamour cast aside, the bull-man towers above them both. The throne hall is too cramped for Yang’s dragon form, trapping her in this somewhat squishier shape, and while her partner can change her skin freely, none of Blake’s transformations match Adam for brute strength.

That’s not to say they’re outmatched. Their foe is bleeding, burning, and bruised—though, _infuriatingly_ , none of it seems to inconvenience him in the slightest. And all the while…

“Haven't you learned your lesson?” thunders Adam. “Your struggles are pointless. As long as the Schees have their boot on Atlas’s throat, the White Fang will not be stopped! _I_ will never stop!”

 _Never stop talking, more like._ The guy just doesn’t _shut up_.

As his sword passes her and glances off the floor, Yang leaps forward. “We’ll see,” she grunts, slamming a set of scaly knuckles into his gut. “You still owe me an arm, big guy.”

His empty hand whips toward her, sausage fingers nearly snagging her hair. “Try and take it! I bested you before, and I’ll—MOOOOOHH!” the minotaur lows, arching his spine as Blake’s claws rake across his shoulders.

“Yeah right. Last time, you snuck in a handicap and I _still_ lit you up.” Yang dances away, heat rising in her throat. “No magic bracelets this time, huh?”

Fire streams from behind her teeth, catching Adam full on the chest. Just as he had last time, the minotaur sees red, lowering his horns before charging forward. Sword trailing at his side, he does his level best to gore Yang while she dodges, backstepping until she sees an opening.

 _Hope this works_. With a final squeeze of her hands, the blonde stops running, braces herself, and takes the minotaur by the horns. Yang’s feet plow grooves into the floor as she is forced back, Adam’s sour breath gusting over her face. Seconds later, a wrench of her arms lets her slip away, sending him crunching into the wall while she scrambles free. There he sticks, neck straining, for a few precious seconds.

“Blake!” she shouts. “Now!”

 

**NEVERMORE PART II (Blake)**

Blake’s teeth sink into the wrist of Adam’s sword hand. Though the minotaur’s forearm is far too thick to fit within her jaws, the werecat’s fangs can easily tear through the limb’s flexor tendons, making his fingers go limp and his sword clatter to the ground.

A berserk bellow splits the air an instant later as Adam jerks free, crippled hand whistling through the air to swat Blake head-over-heels. Spitting blood—almost none of it hers—she rolls to her paws, watching with narrowed eyes as he snatches up the blade with his left hand.

The following strikes are erratic, inaccurate, but no less lethal. While the nagual probes from a distance, Yang weaves through the scarlet arcs to seize Adam’s wounded arm, yanking it into a modified bar. The disparity in their sizes forces the blonde to use a hand and both legs to lock his solitary limb, and even then he simply lifts her off the ground, hoisting the dragon above his head before slamming her back down.

Blake dashes forward, but her partner proves to need no aid. As she plummets, Yang shifts to get her feet beneath her, using Adam’s momentum to hurl him over her shoulder. He hits the floor face-first, right arm wrenched almost vertical behind his back. The dragon ignores the bleeding of his wrist to trap his arm between her knees, grasp his flopping hand, and _twist_.

Though Adam throws his entire bulk against her grip, he can't find the leverage to escape. Flat on his belly, legs kicking blindly, he pounds the floor with his free fist, cursing as Blake kicks his blade away.

“It was painful enough watching you leave,” he snarls. “But now you return just to obstruct my righteous cause?” Yang tightens her hold, but he barely flinches. “And with such _friends_. Too afraid to face me alone?”

“Too smart,” Blake corrects, prowling closer to look him in the eye. For all his faults, Adam had been right about knowing her. She’d like to think that she’s changed considerably in the year since they parted ways, but his knowledge is still relevant enough to be dangerous. Of course, so is hers—and unlike Blake, Adam hasn’t bothered to attempt any growth of his own.

“You’ve lost, Adam. You _are_ lost. She’s using you, can't you see?”

The minotaur bucks, nearly dislocating his own shoulder. “All I see is a coward, traitor to her kind!” His voice grows more zealous with every word. “Because of people like you, they need someone like _me_ to fight for them. To show the humans their place—”

“The only thing you fight for is yourself.” The nagual looks up, golden irises meeting Yang’s violet, and nods. “And we won't let you hurt anyone else.”

Adam’s arm breaks with an audible _snap_ , but he refuses to cry out as he rolls onto his back, released from the dragon’s grasp. “No,” he pants. “I’ll… never… stop.” His chest heaves, good eye burning a hole in the ceiling. “Never.”

Blake knows. Blake knows all too well. She can't convince him to stop; no one can. But there are places where even Adam can do no harm. “You won't have a choice,” she murmurs. “Not where you’re going.”

“We’re not shoving him in the dungeons?” Yang whispers, pointing downward.

“Not _these_ dungeons. The White Fang judges their own.”

The blonde eyes their prone foe, scratching her head as she catches her breath. “But… he _leads_ the White Fang.”

“Only locally. The others aren’t overly fond of humans either, but they can be reasonable. Adam’s gone too far even for them.” Blake narrows her eyes as the minotaur shoves himself upright, struggling to his feet with titanic effort. “He won't have many friends when this is over.”

“It doesn’t matter,” spits Adam, raising his good arm and tossing his horns. “I don’t need them. I don’t need anyone but myself! I’ll show you. I’ll show them all!”

Yang meets Blake’s eye as they shift to fighting stance. _Together_ , resolves the werecat, hearing her partner snort.

“Wanna bet?”

 

**IT’S MY TURN (Weiss)**

_Vop._

Winter’s summoned beowolf vanishes mid-lunge. As does the next, and the one after that.

_Vop. Vop._

“It’s not working,” hisses Weiss, waving Myrtenaster at Cinder. “Try something else!”

Her sister pauses to shoot the younger Schnee a glare. “I cannot get close. The usual ranged alternatives have been equally ineffective. What, exactly, do you suggest?”

“Maybe you’re just not chucking the right stuff!” Yang’s shout is accompanied by a Winter-sized hunk of wall, which flies toward the hovering Cinder—and disappears with an understated _vop_.

“Then again, maybe not.” Weiss smiles to see Blake speaking from atop an unconscious Adam’s back, the bullheaded minotaur finally down for the count.

The fairy pirouettes to sneer down at her new challengers. “Throwing rocks,” she sniffs. “Barbaric—and _so_ typical of your kind.”

“Thanks!” Another chunk of masonry is lobbed across the hall.

_Vop._

“I see that horned brute has fallen short.” Cinder sends an offhand lance of ice whistling toward Blake, who dives behind Adam’s form for cover. “ _Again_.”

“We’re still here!” reports Emerald, chipping at the ice that binds her ankles. “Don’t worry, Cinder, I’ve got your back!”

Winter flicks her hand, and the ice shoots up, covering the minion to her chin.

“Dammit!” She rocks onto her back while, behind her, Mercury bounces between Ruby and Ilia, trading kicks and slashes with inhuman agility. As the room looks on, he deflects an arrow with his shin, somersaults over Ilia’s attempted tackle… and touches down right on her sparking whip.

“Oh, this is gonna hu-ag-ag-g-g-gaaahh.”

He slumps to the floor beside the still-trapped Emerald, and Cinder sighs.

“Color me reassured.”

An icy nevermore swoops for her updo, only to be vaporized with a snort. “All at once!” orders Winter. “Strike from every direction!”

_Vop. Vop. VopVopVopVopVop._

A storm of arrows, discarded weapons, and assorted bits of rubble pop out of sight around the counterfeit godmother, each disappearing with a jab from her—

 _Her wand!_ Eyes widening, Weiss waves Ruby over. “Her _wand_ ,” the princess whispers. “We need to get her wand!”

“Duh!” The younger girl smacks her own head. “Ow. Of course!”

“Can you make that shot?” Their companions have kept up their barrage. Cinder’s attention is off the two of them, but not for long. “Well?” demands Weiss.

Ruby reaches for her quiver, a smile growing on her lips. “I’ve got just the thing.”

…

“Useless!” Cinder snarls, batting aside Weiss’s volley of icicles.

Blake drops from above in her beastly form, clawed hands outstretched.

“Futile!” spits the ersatz fairy, throwing the nagual across the room with a small cyclone.

_Vop. Vop._

Ruby’s arrows wink into nothingness as they near Cinder. “Why?” she scoffs. “When will you _insects_ learn?”

Yang’s projectiles, though larger, meet a similar fate. Lump after lump of stone vanishes with a chorus of _vops_ , drawing another groan from their foe.

“Is there a point to this irritation?”

“Well, that last one was Adam.”

Cinder double-takes. “Truly?” A frown flits over her features, but only momentarily. “Hmph. No great loss.” Her wrist snaps up to block Ilia’s lash, the following jolt of electricity ignored with nary a blink.

A trio of frosty beowolves disintegrate into snowflakes. Another lunge from Blake is met by a slab of rock. Yang, filling the hall in dragon shape, manages to get within snapping distance before Cinder hits her with a fork of lightning.

Weiss takes it all in, rapier heavy in her hand. _I’m not sure how long we can keep this up_. Sweat trickles down the nape of her neck as she meets Ruby’s gaze, signaling with her eyebrows.

 _Ready?_ she mouths.

The werewolf holds up a circle made of thumb and forefinger, which Weiss takes to mean, _Any minute now._

As Ruby draws back a glossy arrow in Crescent Rose, the others redouble their efforts. Leaping from glyph to glyph, Blake and Ilia close in from opposite sides while Yang breathes fire from below. Winter and Weiss move in concert to produce of hail of glowing missiles, forcing Cinder to twirl in a fiery circle.

Through the chaos sails a solitary bolt, black tip catching the light. It arcs toward the fraudulent fairy’s back as she slams Blake with another blast of wind—before spinning back, wand raised. The crystal glimmers, but this time, there is a conspicuous absence of _vop_.

“Obsidian.” Cinder’s eyes narrow, smirk freezing on her lips. “Clever.”

Then, an instant before the arrow pierces her chest, it stops dead, two fingers pinching its shaft.

“But not clever enough.”

Weiss hisses through her teeth, darting a glance at Ruby, who still looks oddly triumphant. The princess snaps her gaze back to Cinder…

And the arrow explodes.

As Cinder shrieks, Ilia’s whip loops around the stem of her wand. The instant the black metal slips from her fingers, the woman plummets, wings shriveling on her back.

“Cinder!” cries Emerald. “NO!”

None too gently, Yang catches the falling villain. “Calm down. She’s—Ooh, that’s not pretty.”

Before Weiss can move close enough to see for herself, a cough from Ilia stops her in her tracks.

“We have a problem.” The jungle spirit is holding Cinder’s wand at arm’s length. Perfectly reasonable, with how the thing is acting. A crack runs down the orange gem at its tip, angry light leaking from within. As she steps forward, the scepter starts to tremble in Ilia’s hand.

“Should I…”

“Why are you still holding that thing?” snaps Blake. “Throw it quick, before—”

Time seems to slow as the wand leaves Ilia’s grasp. It turns end over end, spinning upward before the glow reaches critical levels.

The detonation splits the ceiling of the throne room with a blinding flash. By the time Weiss’s vision clears, cracks are already spreading across the stone, debris bouncing off her shoulder as she stumbles back.

“Move!” Ruby hollers, and the roof comes down.

 

**INTERLUDE- "C" IS FOR CINDER (Penny)**

“I believe… _here_ should do.”

“A-ffirmative,” chimes Penny. It’s easy as pie to strike where Doctor Watts is pointing, her oaken fist pulverizing the wall. “Is that enough?”

Her creator strokes his moustache. “A few more should do, Penny. Ah, excellent.”

Hitching up his robes, the enchanter steps through the hole. Humming under her breath, his artificial assistant follows suit, gaping at the wreckage of the throne hall. Fallen stonework carpets the room, topped by fragments of furniture from the chamber above. Senseless bodies dot the scene; some half-buried, others sprawled atop the rubble.

“Gee, what a mess!”

“Indeed,” hums Doctor Watts. “It seems my associates were less than successful.”

She raises a hand. “Successful at what, Doctor?”

Watts purses his lips. “We have work to do,” he says, not answering her inquiry. “Come.”

With an amiable shrug, Penny trails after the enchanter. “That looks like the crown princess!” she gasps, pointing.

“Come along, Penny,” the doctor repeats. “That doesn’t concern you.”

“She seems to be bleeding.”

“Yes, yes.” Watts moves from unconscious figure to unconscious figure. “Quickly, my dear. Our time is short.”

Penny’s internal compass—nestled between her iron lungs and heart of gold—lets out a small but audible _ping_. “I was constructed to further the interests of Atlas,” she says, frowning. “Item One on that list is the safety of the royal line. Item Seventeen is the safety of all Atlesian citizens. Ignoring them feels… incorrect.”

“Ah,” the enchanter mutters. “Those would be your morality circuits. I’d planned to leave those out, but Ironwood _insisted_ …”

“Great!” chirps the puppet. “Then I’ll just go—”

“Verbal authorization: Black Queen.” Doctor Watts enunciates clearly, eyes boring into Penny’s. “Now, Penny, disregard the royals, disregard the others, and come this way.”

“A-ffirmative!” Smiling, the homunculus follows Watts to the center of the room. There, at the epicenter of destruction, lies a woman with a tattered dress and what are going to be some very impressive scars.

“Dearest Cinder,” the enchanter tuts. “Oh, if only you were… well, better.”

Several yards away, a heap of bricks shifts as a dusty hand is thrust forth. “Shut your moustache hole,” coughs the hand’s green-haired owner, spitting out flecks of rubble. “I didn’t see _you_ doing a thing to help. Salem—”

“Has very little patience for failure.” Doctor Watts sticks his nose in the air. “Unlike you, Emerald, I had no desire to participate in your mistress’s fiasco.”

“You snake! I’ll—”

A groan sends Emerald scurrying back to her pile of rubble. Glowering over her shoulder, she reaches into the debris to haul out an equally grubby young man, his torn pants revealing a pair of metal legs.

“Mind your tongue, child.” Watts picks his way across the floor, chin held high. “I can still leave you and the mer-boy behind.”

Under his direction, Penny hoists the injured woman onto her shoulder, drawing a gasp from Emerald as she sees the extent of Cinder’s injury.

“Is she…”

Doctor Watts pauses his inspection of her companion’s mechanical limbs. “Cinder may yet live,” he sniffs. “Our mistress has powers far beyond your limited comprehension.” Ignoring Emerald’s snarl, he drags his patient upright. “Can you walk, boy?”

Across the room, someone coughs as Penny follows the others in a hasty exit. The enchanter leads them high into the castle’s upper reaches, through hidden chambers and secret passages until they emerge onto an elevated docking platform. An airship is already bobbing above the pad, a rope ladder thrown over its side.

“None of these features exist on my architectural plans!” the puppet informs her new friends. “Such an oversight is unusual for the Doctor, but I’m sure it will be corrected forthwith.”

Watts hesitates halfway onto the aircraft. “Penny,” he says slowly. “Hand Lady Fall to her subordinates.”

She obeys, slipping Cinder into Emerald’s eager arms.

The doctor sighs down at his invention. “I do wish you could come with us, but I’m afraid there’s too much… _Ironwood_ in you. That insufferable morality programming is only the tip of the iceberg, and there simply isn't time to make the necessary modifications.”

Penny shuffles her feet, feeling her eyes widen. “You’re… leaving me behind? You won't be updating me anymore?”

Cinder’s subordinates snort as they follow Watts onto the ship. “Like a baby without her candy,” snickers the merman. “Reminds me of home.”

The enchanter silence him with a glare. “I will not,” he tells Penny. “But rest assured, I will continue my work. Who knows? Perhaps you will meet your successor one day.” As the airship starts to rise, she feels the downdraft tousle her hair. “For now, my creation…” Doctor Watts raises his voice over the humming propellers. “ _Sleeeeep._ ”

As she slumps to the floor, Penny’s carven eyelids slide shut. The sounds of the departing craft grow muted, the gears in her head ticking to a halt as one by one, her systems shut d—

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: A short, sweet epilogue.


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For our heroines, a cheerful coronation... and for two unfortunate rogues, a not-so-happy ending.

**ALL STAR (Blake)**

“How _dare_ you jostle me!”

Blake glares down at Major Cordovin, who clutches the jeweled sabre on her belt. “How dare _I_ —” The nagual cuts herself off, letting the murmurs of the crowd soothe her frayed-thin nerves. “No, no,” she says, forcing her tone to sweeten. “After you, Major.”

The soldier harrumphs as she stomps past, boots leaving indents in the loam.

“Be my guest,” Blake calls after her. “Because you _are_ ,” she adds under her breath.

Yang appears from the throng, stuffed into a smart russet suit. “Why’d Weiss invite her, again?”

“Cordovin _is_ still a major in the Atlesian army.” The werecat sighs, casting a glance around the grassy glen. “And Her Majesty can't snub her new allies. She needs at least some of the old guard on her side.” They start to walk, and she adjusts her own eggplant-hued dress. “Keep your enemies close, right?”

The dragon puffs out a sullen spurt of smoke. “Cordovin’s a major _something_ , that’s for sure.” Yang brightens as she follows her companion’s gaze. “Plus, Weiss isn't a full Majesty yet, right? Just a Highness. She could probably get away with some light snubbing.”

“Not at her own coronation.”

Yang snorts. “Bunch of sticklers. Betcha our girl governs circles around the lot of ‘em.”

“You're probably right,” the werecat agrees. “And they won’t be happy. You and Ruby had better keep watch her back.”

While Yang and Ruby have been in the Capital for the past weeks, and plan to remain—at least until Weiss has solidified her power base—Blake has been away, occupied with other matters across the kingdom.

Her parents had taken in many of those displaced by Lord Jacques’s actions, and while the magical creatures are now free to return to their homes, someone was needed to make sure the reintegration goes smoothly. With Blake’s family officially entering the aristocracy of this new Atlas, she was the logical choice.

By the same token, Weiss had happily agreed when Ghira and Kali had offered to host her coronation. The secluded glade they’d selected is grand as any reception hall and twice as secure, thanks to the power Blake’s family holds in these woods. Towering trees encircle the space, and a canopy of leaves gives the sunlight a greenish hue.

Across the clearing, Blake’s father laughs, his rich boom rolling over the surrounding heads. As hosts, Ghira and Kali have been shadowing Weiss all day, pleased and parental. Their formal wear—like Blake’s—is in varying shades of purple; Kali draped in a violet _sari_ while a thicket of chest hair peeks from within Ghira’s plum jacket.

In a pale blue gown, understated and elegant, Weiss does her best to look regal as she is ushered from guest to guest. The attendees are a colorful crowd, chosen from the most reasonable of the Atlesian courtiers and the least belligerent of the rebel chiefs.

All are on their best behavior under the stern scrutiny of General Ironwood—or at least his head, which overlooks the festivities from a silk cushion atop the central dais. Beside him, the mirror-wizard Ozpin gazes out from a filigreed looking glass, observing the festivities and chatting with the general. In one corner of the platform, a copper-haired puppet has been propped up on a folding chair, dainty snores drifting from her wooden lips.

Turning back to her companion, the werecat shakes her head. “We—”

But there’s no Yang in sight. Further inspection locates Blake’s draconic partner relocated to the buffet table, competing with Sun for heaviest plate. Despite the formality of the occasion, the captain’s shirt is open as always, his only concession the addition of a cummerbund to his pirate’s garb. The velvet band strains over his already-swelling stomach as Sun’s crew cheers him on, their own plates far from light.

“Such a lively gathering.” The nagual turns almost a full circle before she thinks to lower her gaze. “Miss Belladonna, I presume,” chuckles the portly figure, fiddling with the chain of his pocketwatch. “I hear it’s you I have to thank for… all of this, I suppose.”

“And you must be Klein.” Blake’s greeting is somewhat less warm. “All credit rightly belongs to Weiss,” she deflects, then feels her lips twist. “Most credit. Some, at least.”

The steward chortles once more. “I’m thrilled to see such candor. Not to mention loyalty!”

“Speaking of loyalty,” the werecat mutters, eyes narrowing. “Where was yours? Last I heard, you had almost delivered your mistress into a detainment center. And you were nowhere to be found when we stormed Castle Schneeballschtacht.”

“Schneeballschlacht,” corrects the man.

“Schneeballschlat?”

“Schneeball—Never mind.” Klein waves a hand, shifting from loafered foot to loafered foot. “I betrayed Lady Schnee’s trust, it is true. But I fully intended to make amends. My first attempt was to notify the General, but he was unable to track down Her Highness before Lord Jacques acquired the magic mirror.”

He nods toward a nearby looking glass, one of several placed about the clearing. Within, Ozpin appears momentarily to nod his support before flitting back to Ironwood.

Blake frowns, not quite convinced. “And then?”

“During your raid on the palace, I was enjoying a sojourn in the dungeons. Lord Jacques had me detained the moment he heard of his daughters’ arrival. He suspected I would object to his coming actions, and I must say he would have been right.” The butler brightens. “On the bright side, I had very friendly cellmates.”

A one-legged gingerbread man returns Klein’s wave from atop a nearby table, crutch tucked beneath his other arm.

“Convenient.”

“But accurate.” Whitley appears on Klein’s right, pristine white suit contrasting the heavy manacles on his wrists. “We found him wasting away in a cell not long after you left the Capital.” When she only replies with a flat glare, the youngest Schnee idly jingles his chains, casting a polite eye about their surroundings. “This is a very nice forest you have. Wonderful… plants.”

Blake takes a breath, forcing herself to calm. _Klein is practically family_ , Weiss had said, and from the looks of it, that’s one of the rare things she and her brother agree on. “Of course.” She inclines her head, ears lying back. “Enjoy the celebration.”

As she slips away, Winter glides to her side in a neatly-creased uniform. Though she has managed to keep herself spotless, the older woman’s face is flushed with good spirits, a few hairs escaping her severe bun. “I understand your reservations,” the princess murmurs. “But I assure you, Klein is loyal. Not the boldest soul, but he has his strengths.”

“And your brother?”

The roll of Winter’s eyes says it all. “He’s loyal to the family name, at least. And to his own skin. He was never as hated as Father, so his sentence will likely be light. If he wants to keep it that way, he’ll behave.”

“Hmph.” Blake frowns back at the prince and the steward. They have been encircled by Sun and his crew, the pirates shoving a heaping plate into Whitley’s hands and an enormous mug into Klein’s.

“Enough about ‘im!” Velvet pipes up from Winter’s side, scratching at her miniature waistcoat. “Tell me more about this summonin’ business.”

The princess turns to her passenger with a scholarly sniff. “Well,” she begins, “naturally, _you_ know about hard-light dust…”

Blake waves them off with a thin smile, only to be ambushed by a bouncing Ruby Rose. “Isn't this great?” enthuses the teenager. She’s in a skirt that seems to be mostly lace, black and red frills packed beneath her freshly-laundered cloak. “Look at all the guests! She’s got a genuine Atlesian claymore, he has a Mistrali sea axe, and—Ooh! An Atlantean gladius!”

A laugh bubbles up from Blake’s chest. “Tell me you’ve learned more than their preferred armaments.”

“Nope, why?” Her companion shrugs, the movement producing a metallic jangle. “I’m just glad that we’re allowed to bring weapons at all.”

Blake hadn't been a fan of that decision, but her parents had been keen on the idea, seeing it as a final test for the attendees. Besides, the Belladonnas have plenty of support on their home turf, from their friends among the local wildlife to the small army of reptiles on loan from Ilia. If someone so much as thinks about getting stab-happy, they won't miss it.

Just like she can't miss the massive sword on Ruby’s back. Crescent Rose has been joined by a rather distinctive blade, one that nearly matches the young werewolf in size. Catching Blake’s glance, she heaves the saw-bladed weapon into her arms, hugging it close with a proud grin.

“I see you got that rematch with Adam’s lieutenant,” drawls Blake. “I take it you won?”

“Weiss was there too. She managed to slip away from her queen-ing for a day.” Ruby puffs out her chest, features growing wolfish. “But I tracked him down all by myself!” She pats the chain-sword on its motor casing. “Won this beauty fair and square.”

Blake smiles back, tamping down her swell of unease. Though most of his inner circle has been captured, Adam himself is nowhere to be found. He’d disappeared during the battle at the palace, but she can't shake the feeling that he’s out there somewhere. Waiting. Planning.

“Oh, don’t look like that.” Ruby’s voice breaks into her brooding. “Not today! Look! The sun is shining, the forest is singing, and everyone that matters is here!” She throws out her hands. “Even Uncle Qrow made it back in time!”

The man in question has just sprawled out on Ironwood’s other side, a bow tie knotted loose around his neck. Ilia sits a few feet away, a technicolor tailcoat thrown over her usual attire. The jungle spirit’s bare legs stretch out before her as she listens raptly, enthralled by Ruby’s uncle’s tall tales.

Between them, in a glass box, a green blob gazes forlornly at its surroundings, making the occasional _ribbit_.

“Is that…”

Ruby pulls a face. “Weiss’s dad? Yup. We still haven't been able to turn him back.”

“How hard have you been trying?”

“Not very,” confesses the werewolf. “Everyone likes him better this way.”

“Hear hear!” laughs Coco, whirling past with a glass in her hand and Yatsu on her arm. The pair wear tailored tuxedos—as does the less humanoid Fox, who pauses a moment longer to give Blake a sheepish smile and let Ruby scratch behind his ears.

“It’s true. We took a poll.”

“OY!” Yang’s roar carries across the glen. “EVERYONE LOOK SHARP!” The dragon has moved to Weiss’s side, hands cupped around her mouth. “It’s starting!” she continues in a less deafening tone. “Grab some grass, people!”

Though the Atlesian contingent bristles at her informality, the guests arrange themselves into two blocks, an aisle opening before the princess.

“Didn’t miss it, did I?” As the band starts to play, a small voice reaches Blake’s ear.

“Vernal?” The werecat cranes her neck to peer at the unexpected guest, Ruby gawking at the tiny fae. “We didn’t know you were coming.”

The Spring Fairy hitches a tattooed shoulder. “Wouldn’t miss it,” she whispers. “I mean, it’s no wedding or naming ceremony, but I’m always up for a good crowning.” A hand runs through her cropped locks. “Besides, I heard what you did for Amber.”

“Oh yeah!” Ruby cocks her head. “We did… er, what did we do? And… for who?”

“Cinder’s wand,” mutters Blake.

Vernal jabs a finger toward the nagual. “Right on. It’s a terrible thing for a fairy to be trapped like that. You—Well, it’s not how I would’ve done it, but she’s free now.”

“We blew her up!” Ruby mimes an explosion with her hands, making accompanying sounds until a prod from Blake’s elbow dims her enthusiasm. “Does ‘blown up’ mean something different to fairies?” the younger woman wonders.

“Actually, yeah. Amber’ll probably pull herself together in a century or two.” The fairy flutters a miniscule hand. “Now, let’s grab some seats.”

The young werewolf frowns. “There aren’t any.”

“So we’re supposed to _stand_? Belladonna, what kind of show are you running?”

“We _are_ in a forest.”

A rude noise erupts from Vernal’s lips. “So?”

_Snap._

Yelps rise from the guests as benches sprout from the earth. Weiss covers a gasp as the ground around her seethes, flowers shooting up to twine into an exquisite arch. At the aisle’s other end, Winter is borne up on a platform of woven branches, the Atlesian crown plucked from her hands by a pair of vines. Ivy grows around Ironwood and Ozpin, delivering them to Winter’s side as Penny is borne off on a carpet of cornflowers.

Vernal zips forward, growing to human scale in a gust of scented wind. Gasps ensue when the guests notice her presence, the scene freezing for a long moment before the fae claps her hands. “Hey!” she shouts. “Isn't we supposed to be having a coronation?”

Murmuring, the crowd gropes for their seats. Behind the stunned queen-to-be, Blake’s parents exchange approving glances while Yang presses a hand to her friend’s back.

When a nudge fails to have the desired effect, the dragon practically throws Weiss forward with one scaly arm. Scowling over one shoulder, the princess quickly turns her stumble into a stride, marching down the aisle while the attendees look on.

Stifling a chuckle, Blake settles into the first row, Ruby wriggling on her right. The younger girl waves both hands as Weiss sweeps past, a gesture that is met by a roll of ice-blue eyes.

As Winter helps her sister up the steps and Yang drops into the space on Ruby’s other side, Blake can't stop her gaze from drifting into the trees. Over the past month, she’s been party to innumerable changes, most of them for the better. Changes to the kingdom, to its people, and even to herself.

But the werecat finds it oddly comforting that the Wood hasn’t changed at all. It’s still just as it had been on that fateful day she’d met Weiss. Any minute now, she half expects an irritating little princess to come streaking through the forest and drag her off on a whirlwind adventure.

Instead, Weiss stands tall on the dais, turning to face the assembly. Vernal, wings thrumming softly, hovers behind her, spinning the royal crown around a finger. Then, at a pointed cough from Winter, the fairy clears her throat and begins the ceremony.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Creatures great and small. We are gathered here this day to—to…” Vernal taps her temple. “What was it, what was it,” she mutters under her breath. “Chapter six, page four… Oh, _now_ I remember!”

Silencing the crowd with a look, she goes on. “… to witness the inauguration of your new ruler. I here present unto you Weiss Schnee, undisputed heir to the throne of Atlas…”

Reading from an internal script, Vernal slogs her way through the Atlesian oaths. Like most things having to do with this kingdom, they’re dry, drawn-out, and _very_ thorough. When time comes for the nobles to pledge their support, there’s a split second of hesitation before Yang cracks her knuckles and the courtiers hastily mumble through their own vows.

Then, before the crown can settle on Weiss’s coiffed locks, General Ironwood steps forward—or, rather, Winter steps forward, the general’s head on a cushion in her arms—for three final questions.

“Do you solemnly swear to govern the Kingdom of Atlas, its territories and possessions, with justice, integrity, and mercy?”

“I solemnly swear.”

“Will you, under the authority of our respective edicts and customs, execute law and order in all your judgements?”

“I will.”

“And shall you, to the utmost of your ability, defend and uphold the welfare of the kingdom and its united peoples, so long as you shall live?”

“I shall.”

Ironwood smiles as Winter steps back and Vernal raises the crown. “Then it is my honor to pronounce you Queen Weiss Schnee, ruler of all Atlas!”

The end of his announcement is nearly drowned out by Ruby and Yang’s whooping. The sisters’ cheers are soon joined by those of the other guests, audience rising to its feet as Weiss is officially crowned.

Blake stands and applauds with the rest, smile growing to stretch her cheeks. _We did it_. She almost staggers as it finally sinks in. _We really did it_.

“Your Majesty, do you have anything to say?” the general prompts.

Shining at center stage, Weiss opens her mouth, eyes glistening suspiciously. “Thank you all.” The queen bows her head toward her guests. “I—” For a moment, words seem to fail her. “I won't let you down.” Her gaze roves over the throng before settling on Blake’s. “Any of you.”

The answering roar fills the werecat’s ears, but she can't stop grinning long enough to join in. Though the ceremony may be complete, their adventure at a close, her friends soon to go their separate ways… Blake can't see this as an ending. Not for Weiss, not for Atlas, and certainly not for herself.

It feels like a new beginning.

 

**POSTLUDE- THE PIÑA COLADA SONG (Roman)**

“C’mon, Neo.” Roman tucks his hands behind his head, kicking up his feet as he walks. “We’re free, clear, and well out of all that Atlesian nonsense! Lighten up, willya?”

His partner pointedly checks over both shoulders, squinting into the surrounding forest.

“Yeah, yeah,” he allows. “Whoever comes out on top won't be happy with us, but we’ll be looong gone by then.”

Scowl deepening, Neo switches to hand signs. Roman can barely keep up as she expresses her skepticism, finishing with an emphatic set of gestures that utilizes all ten fingers and one forearm.

“Language!” he laughs. This time, she returns his grin, skipping forward to match his longer strides. “Look,” says Roman, sobering slightly. “I’ve been working on getting you free ever since you got tangled up with that wizard—Which, what were you thinking!” he scolds. “How many times do I have to tell you not to play with mirrors?”

Neo’s fingers dance through the air for several moments.

“I don’t care how nice of a roommate he was!” The outlaw tips back his hat, glancing away. “Can't have my getaway gal frolicking through the looking glass. It’s bad for business.”

His pint-sized compatriot forms a heart with her hands, smile only growing.

“Anyway,” Roman goes on, speaking mainly to himself. “We can handle Cinder, worst comes to worst. Long as she doesn’t—” He breaks off as Neo’s arm hits his chest, stopping the thief in his tracks. “What is it?”

The woods seem darker than they were minutes ago. _Could just be a cloud_ , he thinks, but then he sees them.

They seem to glide from the shadows between the trees, eyes blazing red in the murk. _Grimm_. A dozen—No, more, their numbers growing by the second. Gangly beowolves, hulking ursai, even a ring of mid-sized griffons come to settle on the branches above.

It takes a moment more for Roman to appreciate the most chilling detail of this little ambush: None of the beasts have made a sound. They should be howling and slavering by now, not sitting serenely on their haunches like well-trained show dogs.

“Neo?” he whispers. “Please tell me it’s you doing this.”

She shakes her head.

Roman slides his staff from his back. “Thought so.”

Next comes the laughter.

No, the outlaw muses. ‘Laughter’ isn't quite right. What’s the word? Not ‘chuckling’, certainly. ‘Giggling’ is right out…

 _Ah_ , he realizes. _Cackling_. That’s what it is. Low, throaty, cackling that mounts in volume until its source makes herself known. She appears as suddenly as the Grimm, the darkness lapping at her heels as she steps into view. Crimson eyes stand out against chalk-pale skin; long, black-nailed fingertips coming together before her.

“Roman,” she purrs. “You didn’t think you could _run_ , did you? Escape from _us_?”

His mouth flaps noiselessly until Neo kicks his ankle.

“Lady, I’ve never seen you before in my life.” He raises his cane. In unison, the Grimm lean forward. He lowers his cane. “Do I owe you money?”

“Much more than that.” The woman looms forward. “When my agents employ you for a task, Mister Torchwick, I expect you to follow through until the job is _done_.”

 _Oh, % &^#_. “You’re Cinder’s boss.”

Her features smooth out. “Indeed.”

“I take it the Big Plan didn’t work out?” Roman manages a strained chuckle. “Look, Ma’am, I did all I could. Can't blame a guy for a healthy sense of self-preservation.”

“Oh, but I can.”

The sun is a distant memory now, the air cold and still. Grimm start to edge forward between branches that curl like fingers.

When he turns to Neo, she merely shakes her head. His partner in crime has limits, and this mess seems to be far beyond them. As Roman’s fingers tighten around his staff, hers twitch, sketching a final resigned dialogue.

“Yeah.” Roman swallows. “It’s been nice knowing you too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Roman and Neo. They'll be back, though! One of them, at least. In the sequel, coming... eventually, whenever I finish writing it.
> 
> For now, thank you all for reading!


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